


Ginger Snap

by golden_gardenias



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protectiveness, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lloyd was the monster in his nightmares."</p>
<p>(Loosely based on Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.)</p>
<p>
  <b>on hiatus</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so this is based on the erotic novel Lolita, which is from the point of view of a middle-aged man who preys on adolescent girls--one in particular, Dolores, whom he calls Lolita. Because of the material it's based on, it will include scenes/implications of Ian being sexually abused by Ned.
> 
> And I would also like to point out that if the way Ian is portrayed here seems a bit out of character, it's because this is an Ian who has spent the last five years of his life (ages 10-15, his adolescence, which is when youths are trying to forge an identity and are therefore at a stage when they are more vulnerable developmentally/psychologically) being emotionally abused by his stepmother and half-brother, cared for by a clueless and often inadvertently emotionally abusive father, and sexually abused by a live-in family friend (Ned). This is also an Ian who has never attended ROTC training, nor has he had much opportunity to fight with Lip or Frank outside of childish rough-housing. This is an Ian who is not nearly as capable of defending himself as canon Ian.
> 
> So...yeah.

There were three distinct moments in Ian Gallagher’s short life that he could say with certainty had irrevocably changed him.  The first occurred when he was ten years old.

_“Based on the evidence presented by both parties, it is this court’s opinion that it would be in the best interests of the child, Ian Gallagher, if he were to live in the custody of his biological father, Clayton Gallagher.”_

He’d been ripped away from the only family he’d ever known and forced into a strange new environment with people he hadn’t known existed.  The resistance put forth by both Ian and his two older siblings--not his parents, funnily enough--had brought about a compromise.

_“Don’t think you can come in here and take him away from us and just walk away,” Fiona said dangerously.  “If he’s not here on the last day of school with a suitcase full of clothes, I will unleash a hell on you the likes of which you’ve never seen.”_

His new family with Clayton included Clayton’s wife Lucy, his seven year old son Malcolm, his four year old daughter Jane, and family friend Dr. Lloyd Lishman.  Jane reminded him so much of Debbie that it hurt to look at her sometimes, but Malcolm was a sickly child: asthmatic, diabetic, lactose intolerant, the works.  This half-brother was everything his others would despise, and he found himself loathing the boy before they’d even had a proper conversation.

And Lloyd-- _call me Ned_ \--

Lloyd was the monster in his nightmares.

* * *

The second moment occurred when he was twelve years old.

_Ian could feel blood pooling below his waist, settling between his hips._

_He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sensation._

_"Don't worry," Ned said lowly, watching Ian harden in his hand, "this happens to all boys when someone makes them feel good."_

_Ian flinched at the words, but Ned was too focused on his ministrations to notice._

_“Good boy.  You’re doing so well.”_

_The praise made him sick, but not as sick as what happened next._

_“I’ve got something that’ll make you feel even better.”_

Ned was already living there by the time Ian officially moved in.  Something about being broke and going through a messy divorce.  Clayton’s first residency had been under Dr. Lishman, so when his marriage went up in flames, he was more than happy to help his old friend.

Ian had been too young to interpret the looks Ned gave him.  Sure, he thought the staring was odd, but nothing to be concerned about.  And he’d liked that Ned had a special nickname for him, something that was entirely his, despite the fact that Malcolm and Jane also had red hair.

He was Ned’s little Ginger Snap.

Living with these new Gallaghers wasn’t as big an adjustment as he’d thought it would be, but there was one difference that he didn’t think he would ever get used to.

The apathy.

Lucy made absolutely no effort to help acclimate him to his new environment and hardly spoke to him.  Clayton tried to make up for it by smothering him, which only succeeded in making Ian more reluctant to bond with him.  Malcolm was a huge complainer and obviously favored by his mother, which made Ian like him even less.  Jane wasn’t sure what to make of him, and would watch him from across the room, scurrying away whenever Ian caught her.

Ned was the only one who tried to make him feel at home, who tried to empathize with him.  Ned, who would sneak him sweets with a conspiratorial wink when Lucy came back from wherever she was with her children and conveniently forgot to bring back something for Ian.  Ned, who knew of his dislike for Lucy and Malcolm and exchanged jokes with him at their expense.  Ned, who helped him with his homework when Clayton was too busy and Lucy couldn’t be bothered.  Ned, whom he cried to when he’d returned from his first summer with his Southside family, lamenting the fact that he didn’t belong anywhere.  Ned, who held him and comforted him by whispering “You belong right here” in his ear and stroking his hair until he cried himself to sleep.  Ned, who let him stay up late to watch television.  Ned, who carried him to bed once he’d conked out.

Ned, who would come into his room and watch him sleep.

The first time Ian caught him, he’d tried to play it off by saying he’d thought he heard Ian having a nightmare.  The second time, they’d stared at each other from their places across the room until Ian eventually fell back asleep.  The third time, Ned was climbing into bed with him.

Ian was initially alarmed by the intrusion, crying out in fear, but Ned had covered his mouth and gently shushed him.

“What are you doing?” Ian whispered harshly.

Ned shrugged.  “I was bored in my room all by myself.”

“Well why weren’t you sleeping?”

“Because I was thinking of all the fun stuff I wanted to do with you.”

Ian perked up.  “Is Clayton finally letting us do paintball?”

“Not that kind of fun, Ginger Snap.”

“Oh.  More board games?” he asked disappointedly.

“Hey now, don’t pout,” Ned admonished, bringing his finger to Ian’s face and touching his lips.  “This game is way more fun than boring old Monopoly, I promise.”

He’d piqued Ian’s interest.  “What game?”

“We’re gonna play Doctor.”

* * *

The third moment occurred when he was fifteen years old.

_“Oh my God, thank you so much!  He’s been following me for two blocks, I just went to the first place I saw.”_

_“Bad date?”_

_She rolled her eyes.  “The worst.  Took me to a movie and started groping me during the previews.”_

_“Ambitious of him.”_

_“I know!” she snorted.  “And he doesn’t even have the dick to back it up.”_

_“You mean...”_

_“I felt him up.  Practically a micro-penis.”_

Ian had just met Mandy Milkovich.

He’d somehow managed to procure a summer job at the Kash and Grab, contributing half of his earnings to the squirrel fund and keeping the rest for himself.  The longing looks from his boss felt the same as the ones he would get from Ned, and he resolved not to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

A girl ran into the store while he was manning the register, and before he could protest, ducked behind the counter with him and curled up beneath it.  Her eyes were wide and frantic when she looked up at him, pleading.  “Pretend I’m not here,” she whispered.  “You never saw me before, please.”

A muscular guy burst in just as he was about to respond, and he jolted to assume his previous position, idly flipping through a magazine.

The guy stalked through the store, looking up and down each aisle four times before approaching the register.  “Did you see a girl come in here?” he asked.

“Nope.  You’re the first customer we’ve had all afternoon.  Gonna buy something?”

The guy stared at Ian for a moment, as if judging whether or not to believe him.

Play it cool, play it cool.  “Want a pack of Marlboro’s?  Some gum?”

“Nah, man, forget it,” he scoffed, turning and walking to the door.

When the bell sounded the girl tried to move, but Ian blocked her in until he saw him cross the street and round the corner.

“You can come out now,” he told her.

She emerged more gracefully than he’d expected, chattering her gratitude at him and explaining the situation.  “He’s probably a juicer,” he replied.

“Yeah, probably,” she agreed.

Once customers started filing in, she made to leave.  “Thanks again, you really saved my ass.”

“Don’t mention it, it’s no problem.”

Her hand was on the handle, but she walked back behind the counter to him.  “What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Ian.”

“Well Ian,” she said coyly.  “You might just be my knight in shining armour.”  She kissed his cheek before walking away again, leaving the store before he got the chance to ask her name.

* * *

Meeting Mandy had been the start of a much-needed change in Ian’s life, the catalyst for everything that would happen to him in the next two years.

Mandy had introduced him to Mickey.

 


	2. There's No Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short, but I liked ending it there. Next chapter should be longer, I just sorta banged this one out real quick. And I couldn't resist adding the QAF line at the end haha

_Fear._

_Cold, blind fear._

_Ripping through him, making his heart race and his skin crawl, like an itch he couldn't scratch._

_Ned was waiting behind his door.  He could feel his presence, could smell his cologne, could picture him licking his lips in anticipation._

_He closed his eyes tight, wishing his bed could swallow him, that he would disappear, that the blankets piled on top of him would be enough to deter the man he knew was coming for him._

_The door creaked open._

 

* * *

 

“Ian?  Ian, wake up, you're gonna be late for work.”

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder trying to shake him awake, but he flinched away from it as if it had burned him.  Fiona straightened, worry on her face.  “You okay?” she asked.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart.  “I-I'm fine,” he stammered, mouth dry.

“Are you sure?  You look a little clammy.”

She reached down to brush the back of her hand across his forehead, and he jerked away.  “Don't," he warned.  "Don't touch me."

Her hand fell limply to her side.  “Did you have another nightmare?” she asked quietly, sitting at the end of his bed.

He appreciated that she kept her distance.  “Yeah,” he admitted, scrubbing his hands over his face.  “Ugh, I need a shower.”

Fiona understood the attempt to avoid the subject and didn’t press him.  “There’s pancakes and bacon downstairs, I’ll set a plate aside for you.”

“Thanks.”  He tried to smile at her, but he could feel how mangled it was.

She bent to kiss his forehead, unable to suppress the urge to comfort him.  “Okay?”

Her eyes were wide and earnest, and he loved her for asking permission.  “Mhm.”

The kiss was brief, and he fought the shiver running down his spine, trying to focus on getting as much of Fiona’s baby powder scent in his nose as possible.  It always helped him feel better.  “I love you, munchkin,” she whispered in his hair.

He smiled at the old nickname, remembering being eight years old and running to Fiona with all his bad dreams.  Lip had teased him for it, but Ian knew that he ran to her too.

“Love you too,” he replied, hugging her.

She seemed surprised at the contact, but wrapped her arms around him nonetheless.  A yell and a thud from downstairs cut their moment off, and they separated.

“Carl probably took another nose dive down the laundry chute,” she muttered.  “Shower, and don’t try to sneak off, you need to eat.”

He smiled at her.  “I know what a morning routine is, Fi.”

She rolled her eyes before heading downstairs to see what the damage was.

Ian laid back on his bed for a few minutes more, listening to the chaos downstairs and smiling to himself.

He’d missed having a mother.

 

* * *

 

The Kash & Grab was always slow in the mornings, especially in July; the heat made everyone retreat into their homes, resolving to do their shopping on a neverending loop of tomorrows.  Luckily, he had Mandy to keep him company.

“Bullshit!” he laughed.  “That did not happen!”

“Honest to God!  I mean it’s not like I didn't see it coming, Mr. Bancroft’s always been a creeper.”

“But he actually said that if you blew him he would pass you?”

She shrugged.  “It was implied, at least.  And it’s not like it’s the first time it happened or anything.”

Ian didn’t know how to respond.

Mandy picked up on his discomfort and changed the subject.  “So why haven’t I ever seen you in school before?  No wait, don’t tell me!  You’re a naughty truant,” he accused, wagging a finger at him.

He laughed, swatting her hand away.  “No, I actually only live here during the summer.”

“Slummin’ it in the summertime, interesting.  Where do you live during the school year?”

“With my dad, on the Northside.”

Her eyebrows shot up.  “Well aren’t we fancy?”

He snorted.  “It’s not nearly as glamorous as it sounds.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she grinned.  “But wait, aren’t you a Gallagher?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you not Frank’s or something?”

“Actually no, I’m not.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter, an eager look on her face.  “Ooh, gossip!  Do tell.”

He rolled his eyes.  “It’s not that juicy, I promise you.”

“Well you gotta tell me something, I’m dying of boredom over here.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he reminded her.

“Well I’m here now, so you better make it worth my while,” she teased.

“Alright, alright, jeez.  Okay, so I lived here ‘til I was ten, when they gave Clayton custody of me.”

She scrunched her nose.  “Clayton?”

“Yeah, I know, right?  Anyway, Clayton has custody, but Fiona pitched a fit and said I had to come here for some holidays and summer vacation, so every other year I do Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years down here.”

“That’s not such a bad set-up.  Who do you live with up there?”

“There’s Clayton, his bitch of a wife Lucy, their bratty son Malcolm, their daughter Jane, and--um.”  He stopped himself.

“And who?” Mandy questioned.

“N-no one,” he stammered.   _Stupid, stupid, stupid!  Why would you do that?_

Mandy eyed him warily.  “Who else lives there?”

“He’s--it’s no one, I just made a mistake.”  His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them desperately on his jeans.  “Just forget about it, alright?”

“Ian,” she said, voice hard.  “Who else lives in your house?  You can tell me.”  She placed a hand gently on his arm, and he jumped away from it.

“Don’t--Don’t touch me, please,” he strained out.  He could feel blood rushing to his head and tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down.   _Stop freaking out, idiot! You could’ve made something up, why didn’t you just lie?!_

And that’s when it happened.

When _he_ came along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the bridge of "Dark Paradise" by Lana DelRey.
> 
> "There's no relief,  
> I see you in my sleep.  
> And everybody's rushing me,  
> But I can feel you touching me.  
> There's no release,  
> I feel you in my dreams,  
> Telling me I'm fine."


	3. I Wanna Hide the Truth, I Wanna Shelter You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be sleeping, but Ian and Mandy wouldn't let me :/

The shop door banged open, startling Ian to the extent that he jumped back and pressed himself up against the wall.

A pale boy with dark hair and blue eyes stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, a scowl set on his face.  “The fuck’s wrong with him?” he asked Mandy.

“It’s fine, Ian, it’s just my shithead brother,” she explained.  She extended her arms toward him, but seemed to think better of it, retracting them before she touched him.  She apologized to him in a hushed voice, but he didn’t hear it.

Ian was still staring at her brother.

He was wearing a blue tank top and dark jeans, his hair growing upward in a spiky tuft.  His cheeks were round and his lips were full and Ian didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

_Wait, what?_

He watched Mandy’s brother walk through the aisles, idly picking out snack items and pointedly ignoring Mandy’s glare.  “You shouldn’t steal, Mickey, it’s rude.”

He snorted.  “The fuck do I care?  Gotta eat, don’t we?”

_Mickey.  His name is Mickey._

“Have some civic pride, will you?” she snapped.

He rolled his eyes.  “Well, you know where I live if you have a problem.”  He brought his contraband to the register, emptied a box of Doublemint gum, and arranged his loot.  “Oh, heads up, man,” he said to Ian, “you’re out of barbecue Pringles.”

Ian’s stomach clenched.  He could feel his cheeks flaring up in a deep blush.  “I’ll, uh, get right on that,” he said awkwardly.

Mickey quirked his eyebrows and sauntered out.

“Sorry about him,” Mandy mumbled.  “I’ll pay for whatever he took--”

She was cut off by the sound of Mickey returning.  “Forgot the dip,” he laughed to himself.  He bumped his shoulder with Mandy’s as he passed her on his way to the back of the store.

“Assface,” she muttered.

“Douchebag,” he threw over his shoulder.  Ian didn’t know how he could’ve heard her, but then again he'd probably just _known_ she’d said it.  The way he and his siblings knew before Lip was going to say something smart and told him to shut up.

“Let’s go, Mandy,” he called from the doorway.  “Lunchtime.”

She turned to Ian.  “When do you get off?”

“Five.  Why?”

“I’ll pick you up.  We can walk around...talk about stuff.”

The pointed look she gave him chilled him as much as it comforted him.  He nodded jerkily.

She patted his hand twice before leaving with her brother.

Ian was left thinking about the way Mickey’s hands moved and wondering why he’d agreed to tell Mandy his darkest secret.

 

* * *

 

Mandy was waiting for him when he walked out of the store at 5:04, leaning against the facade of the building.  “Anywhere you need to be?” she asked him.

“Not really.  Dinner’s in a couple hours.”

“Good.  Come with me.”

She turned on her heel and didn’t look back to ensure he was following.  He gulped before hurrying after her.

They walked in silence for a few blocks until they happened upon an empty playground.  Mandy sat on a swing, and Ian followed her lead.  She took a cigarette from her pocket, lighting it and offering it to him.  “I don’t smoke,” he said quietly.

She snorted.  “Jeez, you really aren’t from around here.”

He could tell she was trying to make him smile, but he couldn’t.  His insides were too twisted, and the idea of feigning happiness made him sick.

“Mine is my dad,” she said suddenly.

He turned to her, confused.

“Sometimes he’ll come into my room in the middle of the night, shitfaced.  Started when I was thirteen.  He’ll call me Marissa and whisper how much he misses me.  He’ll tell me he misses touching me and that I’m still sexy, even after six kids.”

Ian wanted to tell her to stop, but his mouth was too dry to attempt to speak.

“The only times I’ve ever seen my father cry are when he’s done.”

The air was thick with the words Ian wanted to say: words of comfort, words to express his horror, words of damnation.  Nothing came out.  He hated how nonchalant she was being, how matter-of-fact her tone was, as if this were a reality she didn't have the power to change.

“Hey,” Mandy said softly, drawing him out of his macabre reverie.

When he turned to her, she gave him a small smile before tentatively grabbing his hand.  “I told you my demon, now you tell me yours.”  Her fingers were warm wrapped around his, and he knew in that moment that he would tell her everything.

“His name is Ned.”

She nodded, committing the name to memory.

“He’s my dad’s friend.  He lives with us.”  He hated how choppy his sentences were, hated how he couldn’t catch his breath.  Mandy seemed to sense that he was spiralling and squeezed his hand, grounding him.  “He lived there before me, after he and his wife got divorced.  He was my friend.”

Mandy watched the tears gather in his eyes and didn’t let go of his hand when he tried to reach up and wipe them away.  She understood his pain better than he did, knew that holding back the tears was the equivalent to bottling the agony, perceived his dire need for blessed release, sensed the bitter stab of betrayal searing through him.

She let him cry.

“He-He was the only one in the house that l-liked me,” he said brokenly.  “Lucy didn’t give a shit and M-Malcolm was a fucking prat, and Clayton _always_ took their side!  Ned was the only one who was n-nice to me, and it was all b-because--”

“I know, Ian.  I know.”

Her voice was dripping in sympathy as she wrapped her arms around him.  He sobbed into her shoulder, allowing the heady smell on the sleeve of her T-shirt--sweat and cigarettes and something bitter and metallic--to fill his nostrils.  She stroked his back, alternating between long, smooth lines and small circles in the center.  She didn’t whisper that it was okay.  She didn’t tell him he’d get through it.  She didn’t assure him that everything was fine.

He loved that she didn’t lie to him.

Once he’d calmed down enough to pull away from her, she pulled a travel pack of tissues out of her other pocket.  “I got snot all over your shirt,” he lamented.

She laughed.  “It’s fine.  It’s Mickey’s anyway.”

His stomach lurched at the name.

“You don’t have to keep talking if you don’t want to,” she said softly.  “We can talk about something else.”

“Why couldn’t we talk about something else _before_ I cried like a baby?” he snapped.  There was no real venom in his voice, though.  He didn’t think he could muster it up at this point.

“Don’t be a jerk, you needed to let that out.”

He sniffed.  “I guess.”

She sat back on her swing, kicking her feet a little.  They drifted into a comfortable silence, watching the stillness of the world around them.

“I think I might be gay,” he announced.

She turned to face him, surprised.  “You’re not sure?” she asked.

He shrugged.  “I used to think boys were cute when I was younger, but now...now it’s like...” he grunted, frustrated at the words that wouldn’t come to him.  “I only ever did stuff with Ned, you know?  And it always--um--” he cut himself off, embarrassed.

“I know how a penis works, Ian,” she reminded him gently.  “You stimulate it, it gets hard, you increase stimulation, it blows a load.”

“Right,” he said, cheeks burning.  “But I don’t know if the whole load thing means I’m gay or if I...I don’t know, maybe I like it or something--”

“No,” she said sharply.  “Your body responding to it doesn’t mean you like it or that you want it, okay?  If you’re gay, it’s not because of Ned.  It’s because of _you_.”

  _So thinking your brother's hot isn't a fluke?_

“If you were in a threesome with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, which one would you want to stick it in?” she asked bluntly.

He burst into laughter, questions about Mickey pushed out of his mind.

“I’m serious!  This could make or break your sexual identity, Ian!  Kate Winslet or Leo DiCaprio?   _Anna Paquin or Alexander Skarsgard?_ ”

“Oh God, no, Mandy, what are you thinking?  It’s Joe Manganiello or it’s no one.”

She shoved his shoulder, laughing.  “Congratulations, you’re a flaming homosexual.”

He didn’t think he'd ever been so happy in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a verse of "Demons" by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> "I wanna hide the truth,  
> I wanna shelter you.  
> But with the beast inside,  
> There’s nowhere we can hide."


	4. The Kids are Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey might seem a bit OOC, but I blame the weed (and my desire to pair them up asap).

Ian was about 97% sure that Mandy Milkovich was a goddess.  Or at the very least, a guardian angel.

The two weeks they’d spent together after they’d exposed themselves to each other left him in a state of perpetual giddiness.  He didn’t know what he was high on at first, but then they would wander aimlessly around town holding hands and somehow always wind up at that playground.  They would sit on the swings for hours, talking about everything and nothing.  She became his confidant, the _one person_ who knew everything about him and wasn’t disgusted, wasn’t angry, didn’t judge.  He told her about his nightmares and she knew not to touch him.  She told him about her memories of her mother and he knew not to laugh, even when she tried to make it funny.  Mandy was safe for him, and he tried to be safe for her.

And that’s when he realized.

 _Freedom_.

The high that left him smiling so often that Fiona and Lip thought something was wrong.  He wanted to tell them that something was _finally_ right, that he was free in ways he hadn’t been for _years_.  Mandy gave him the freedom to be himself, whether that was the hollow shell of an abused boy or the exuberant warmth of who he really was.  On days he was merely a shell, she sat with him in silence; no poking or prodding, just sitting together, holding hands.  On good days, days that he wanted to laugh and run and jump, she let him, chasing him around abandoned buildings and playing elaborate games of Loser Goes to Gitmo with him and his younger siblings.

If he wasn’t gay, he would be in love with her.

 

* * *

 

One night in early August, she showed up on his porch with an overnight bag.

“Can I stay here for a couple days?”

He didn’t ask Fiona for permission, just brought Mandy up to his room and ignored the looks he was receiving from his siblings.  “Can I have sleepovers with girls?” he heard Carl ask.

Fiona gave him a firm “ _No_ ” before following Ian up the stairs.

She stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest, watching Ian set up Mandy’s stuff.  She didn’t understand the slow deliberateness of each action or the tender kiss he gave her on the forehead or the desperate way Mandy threw her arms around him and squeezed, clinging to him.

Ian whispered something in her ear before letting go and walking across the room to Fiona.  She caught a glimpse of Mandy laying down on Ian’s bed before he closed the door and stood in front of her.

“Mandy needs to stay here for a few days,” he said.

She’d never seen the look of certainty on her brother’s face before, and it perplexed her.  “Why?” she asked.

“Her dad just got home from his latest prison stint.  She doesn’t like being at home for the parties.”

He was resolute and almost intimidating, but Fiona held her own.  “No one’s gonna come looking for her, are they?”

He shook his head.  “They hardly ever notice she’s gone.”

Fiona felt a pang of sadness for the girl, but tried to squash it down.  She still had to be the responsible adult.  “Do you need condoms?  I know Lip has some under his mattress.”

A choked off laugh broke through Ian’s facade.  “No, _God_ no, it’s not like that.”

She gave him a dubious look.  “Well just in case it gets ‘like that,’ you know where to look.”

He was still chuckling when she walked away.

 

Mandy was quiet as they laid together that night.  Ian held her the same way she had that day in the park, rubbing long strokes down her back and not talking.  He figured he would give her this time to break down, and then he would put her back together when she was ready.

He could feel Lip watching them from his top bunk, and he appreciated that he waited until Mandy fell asleep to speak.  “She’s cute.”

“She’s beautiful,” Ian corrected.  And she was.  He knew her in ways no one else did, in ways no one else _could_ , and he could see how gorgeous she was.  He saw it every day.

“Pretty intense for a summer fling, don’t you think?”

Ian hesitated.  “It’s not a summer fling.  We aren’t dating.”

Lip snorted.  “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious!” Ian insisted.  “She’s not my girlfriend, we’re just friends, okay?”

“You’re only here for three months of the year, so I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: Mandy Milkovich doesn’t have guy friends, Ian.  She has fuck buddies.”

He felt his arms tighten around her at Lip’s words.  “You don’t know her.  You don’t know _anything_.”

Ian knew that Mandy only had supposed “fuck buddies” because seemingly all of the men in her life saw fit to use her.

“Well if you’re not fucking her, you mind if I do?”

He knew Lip was joking, could hear the smile in his voice, but the words still rubbed him the wrong way.  “Thought you were with Karen?”

It was Lip’s turn to shrug.  “She doesn’t want to define it, so I’m just assuming we’re in an open relationship.”

“What, as in Open for Business?  You’re such a slut, dude.”

Lip laughed.  “Nah, I just know what I like.  And I like sex.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

Mandy smacked him lightly in the chest and shook his shoulders.  “Wake up, shithead, there’s doughnuts downstairs.  I’m not missing jelly-filled diabetes because you can’t be bothered to _move_.”

When he didn’t react, she started tickling his sides.  He shot straight up, eyes wide.  “No, Jesus Mandy, stop!  I’m up, I’m up!”

“Good, I’m _starving_.  Get your ass in gear, Gallagher,” she said, thrusting into his butt as he bent to put socks on.

He glared at her.  “You are so dead.”

“Why?  I thought you liked that sort of thing,” she teased.

He chased her down the stairs, laughing, but they both stopped short at the new face leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Oh look who’s finally up!” Fiona said.  “Jimmy brought doughnuts, and there’s eggs too.”

Ian stared at whom he assumed was Jimmy.  Something about him seemed familiar...

“Shit, I totally forgot!  You two haven’t met yet.  Ian, this is my boyfriend, Jimmy Lishman.  Jimmy, this is my brother Ian and his, um, friend Mandy Milkovich.”

Mandy’s hand pressed gently into Ian’s back, keeping his knees from buckling.

 _Lishman_.

He could remember Ned showing him pictures of his family in his wallet. _“And these are my sons, Jimmy and Chip.”_

He wasn’t aware of moving, but he was suddenly seated at the kitchen table with Mandy pressed against his side, rubbing her hand across his shoulder blades.

He didn’t register any of the conversation buzzing around him; he stared at the food on his plate that he didn’t remember getting and tried to ignore the way his insides were churning.

Jimmy’s voice broke through the static in his head.  “You need any help with Day Care today, Debs?”

His eyes bulged at the casual way the man addressed his little sister.  Jimmy had a soft smile on his face and Debbie answered him readily, her voice squeaking as she went over her plans for the day.

Ian couldn’t breathe.

This was Ned’s son.  His father was capable of _horrible_ things, things that made Ian’s skin crawl and hair stand on end and blood chill.  He pictured Debbie in his place with this man, could see him getting out of bed when Fiona fell asleep and walking into Debbie’s room, could see Debbie _crying_ \--

“Ian?”

His hands were balled into fists, shaking on top of the table.  He could hear his breath coming in short spurts, the tightness in his chest suffocating him.  His skin felt too tight on his bones, stretching in all the wrong places.

Debbie spoke again, worried.  “Ian, are you alright?”

His mouth was too dry to answer her.  He knew everyone was staring at him, and he felt like an insect under a magnifying glass.  Their stares were burning him.

“Go take a shower,” Mandy whispered in his ear.

He turned to her sharply, eyes wild.  “It’s fine, go!” she urged, pushing his shoulders a bit.  “I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

It felt wrong to leave the table.  It made him sick to turn his back on his sister, but Mandy smiled at him and he knew that she would take care of her.

He couldn’t remember walking to the bathroom, but he was suddenly under the spray of scalding hot water, still in his boxers and wearing one sock.  He watched welts spring up on his arms, not feeling the pain.  His mind was a mess of images, envisioning awful things and God, he just wanted it to _stop_ \--

Two soft knocks jolted him from his musings.  He still couldn’t speak, so he pulled the curtain back and turned the knob from his position in the tub.

Mandy opened the door and immediately recoiled at the steam billowing everywhere.  “Jesus, Ian!” she exclaimed, rushing to adjust the knobs for the water temperature.  The cold water bit at him, shocking the tightness in his chest into expanding.

He could breathe again.

 

Ian sat on his bed, wrapped in a towel.  He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

“I don’t think he’s doing anything.  To any of them.”

Oh, right.  Mandy.

“There weren’t any weird smiles or lingering touches.  The kids didn’t look uncomfortable at all.  I really think they’re fine, Ian.”

Her reassurances did nothing for him.  “I need to talk to her,” he said, voice raspy.

“You’re not worried about Carl?” she asked.

Lip had told him about the time a priest tried to touch Carl.  Ian knew Carl could handle himself.

But Debbie.  Sweet and innocent Debbie, who was so small but smiled so wide.

“I need to talk to her,” he repeated.

Mandy nodded.  “Okay.  Let’s get you dressed first.”

She helped him put on sweatpants and a T-shirt before going down the hall to Debbie’s room.  She was bent over a book, coloring and talking to her stuffed animals animatedly.  He knocked, and her eyes lit up.  “Ian!  Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m fine now.”  He tried to smile at her, but the hollow feeling was back.

“Are you sure?”  She could see on his face how mangled he was on the inside.

He nodded slowly.  “I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” he began, sitting on her bed.

“About what?” she asked, setting her book and crayons aside.

“About Jimmy.  He’s Fiona’s boyfriend?”

“Yup.  For about a year now.”

“Does he live here?”

“Most of the time.  Sometimes he disappears, but he said it’s better if we don’t ask questions.”

That didn’t necessarily help Ian feel better about the guy.  “What does he do for a living?”

“He steals cars and sells them for parts.  I hear it’s a very lucrative business.”

“Well you stick to Day Care for now, alright?”

She laughed.  “He doesn’t drive any of us in the cars ever since Lip got arrested in one, so don’t worry.”

He managed a small smile this time.  “So you like him?” he asked, trying to get on track.

She shrugged.  “He’s okay, I guess.  He’s not mean and he makes Fiona happy.  And he buys us stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“A new washing machine, after their first date.  Can you believe it?”

“Sounds like a good guy,” he hedged.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself.  “Does he ever...make you uncomfortable?”

She furrowed her brows, confused.  “What do you mean?”

“Does he ever...do or say things that make you uncomfortable?”

She looked baffled.  “No.  What kind of things?”

“Um...”  He didn’t want to do this, he did not want to do this...  “Things like touch your leg or your back?  Or maybe look at you weird?”

She seemed even more confused than before.  “Why would he do that?  And weird how?”

Her confusion relieved him, and he wrapped her in a hug so tight she spluttered when he released her.  “What was that for?”

“I love you so much, Debbie, you know that?”

“Are you high?”

He laughed a bit manically, which wasn’t really helping his case at all.  “No, I’m great.  And so are you.”

She eyed him warily.  “Whatever you say.”

“You can go back to coloring now,” he said, standing.

She seemed happy to do just that, opening to her previously abandoned pages.

“Oh, and Debbie?” he called from her doorway.

She looked up.

“Make sure you lock your door at night, okay?”

He could tell she wanted to ask why again, but instead she nodded.

The relief that surged through him left him giddy, and he steadied himself against the wall in the hallway.  Mandy looked up at him, grinning.  “This calls for a celebration,” she announced.

 

* * *

 

Lip walked slowly down the front stairs, the words exchanged during Ian and Debbie’s conversation weighing heavily on his mind.  He’d already been sitting on the third step scrolling through the pictures of him and Karen on his phone, trying to think of ways to get her to commit to him, when Ian’s odd questions floated through the air.

He passed Jimmy on the couch, playing with Liam.  It had never once occurred to him that their interactions should be supervised.

Fiona was doing laundry and humming to herself when he walked into the kitchen.  “Hey, Fi, can we, uh, talk?”

She closed the washing machine door and leaned against it out of habit.  “Sure, what about?”

“Did you ever have any reason to think that Jimmy would...do something to the kids?”

“What do you mean?” she glanced behind her at Jimmy and Liam.  “Did something happen?”

“No, everything’s fine, it’s just...Ian was asking Debbie if he ever touched her.”

Her shoulders stiffened.  “Did she say that he did?”

“No, she didn’t even realize that that’s what he was asking, but that’s not the point.  Why would Ian think he would?  He even told her to lock her door when she went to bed.”

Fiona bit her lip.  “Well...he’s not here most of the time, he just wants to make sure everything’s okay.  He doesn’t know Jimmy, so he’s covering his bases, being a good big brother.”

Lip nodded, outwardly agreeing with her, but he couldn’t help the tight coil of unease pooling in the pit of his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Mandy’s dad and uncles had gone out bar hopping, and they usually wound up sleeping in the yard on those nights, so she brought Ian to her house for their impromptu “celebration.”

“Mickey’s got a not-so-secret stash.  You want in?”

He eyed the “STAY THE FUCK OUT” sign on Mickey’s door warily.  “Um...”

She rolled her eyes.  “Pussy.  Wait in the living room, I’ll bring it out.”

He sat on the couch and tried to find something to watch.  “So where is Mickey?” he asked as she came back.

“Don’t know.  Probably out collecting.”  She rolled them a joint and presented it to Ian.  “You first,” she said, grinning wickedly.

He tentatively put it in his mouth and she lit it for him.  The first puff left him coughing, eyes watering.

Mandy laughed.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

He watched her hold it expertly between her fingers, lips curling around it.  Her drag was long and fulfilling, judging from the look on her face.

They passed it back and forth in companionable silence before Ian broke it.

“Do you think he still might try something?” he asked.

She blew her smoke out in circles.  “No, I think they’re fine.”

“Are you sure?  He might just be waiting for her to get old enough for him.  Or maybe it’s Liam he wants.”

“Ian.”  Her tone told him he had to listen carefully to what she was going to say.  “Just because his father is what he is doesn’t mean Jimmy has to be.”

“What if he touched Jimmy too?  I heard that kids who are abused are more likely to become abusers.”

“Yeah, but abusing your own kid?  Sounds kinda skeevy, don’t you think?”

They both cracked up, dropping the stub of their joint on the floor and rolling around on the couch.

“Ey!  The fuck you girls gabbin’ about?”

Mickey’s voice startled them into silence, each of them staring at him with wide eyes.  He stared back, his face morphing into a scowl.  “You in my weed again, Mandy?”

She hiccupped.  “No.”

He rolled his eyes, obviously not believed her.  “Yeah, alright Stoner Barbie.  Just don’t eat my chips.”

He snatched the poorly concealed baggie off the coffee table and rolled himself a joint before stuffing the rest in his pocket.  “No more stealing my shit, alright?” he said around the blunt in his mouth.

Mandy rolled her eyes.  “Yeah yeah yeah.”

Mickey changed the input on the TV to turn on their Xbox.  “Move over, douchebags,” he said, sitting next to Ian.

Their bare arms brushed against each other, and Ian felt a pleasant burning sensation spreading throughout his body, unsure if it was the pot or their proximity.

He watched the siblings play a brutal game of Halo, trying to control the way his body was tingling at constant contact with Mickey’s.  He could feel himself getting giddier the more smoke Mickey puffed out, and Mickey seemed to be aware of the effect it had on him--rubbing against his sides too often to be considered accidental, smirking slightly as he took another drag of his joint.

Then Mandy announced she was making pizza bagels and walked to the kitchen, leaving them alone on the couch.

Mickey gave Ian a lewd grin, and he felt himself return it.

This buzz was doing wonders for both of them, it seemed.

Mickey eyed Ian’s growing erection.  “What do you say we uh, take this somewhere else, Firecrotch?”

Ian’s brain short-circuited.

Was he...did that actually...

Did Mickey just _proposition_ him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from one verse in particular of "The Kids are Alright" by The Who:
> 
> "Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away.  
> Bells chime, I know I gotta get away.  
> And I know if I don't, I'll go out of my mind.  
> Better leave her behind with the kids, they're alright.  
> The kids are alright"


	5. I Heard that You Like the Bad Boys, Honey, is that True?

Ian could feel the world collapsing around him.

The smile was slowly fading from Mickey's face, replaced by a look of increasing horror.  He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to say _anything_ , but could produce nothing but a series of squeaky stammerings of "I," and by then Mickey was glowering.

He watched Mickey's fists clench, the letters tattooed on his knuckles standing out intimidatingly, and did the only reasonable thing left.

He ran like a bat out of hell.

 

He didn't talk to anyone when he got home, didn't answer any questions, just ran upstairs, threw off his clothes, and hopped into another shower, hoping to wash the embarrassment and fear off of him.

God, he was so  _stupid._   Running was literally the  _worst_ thing he could've done, because now Mickey thought he didn't want him.  Or maybe Mickey thought he was straight.  And now gay Mickey thinks that straight Ian knows his secret because  _of course_ he's not out in this neighborhood and  _shit._

Mickey was going to  _kill_ him.

* * *

 Ian wanted to spend his day laying in bed and wallowing over what happened yesterday, but then he remembered that he’d seen Fiona dip into the Squirrel Fund last week for groceries--she’d apologized profusely and promised to never do it again, rushing through an explanation of how she was just $12 short of the weekly budget because she hadn’t been getting tipped as much the week before--and thought better of it.

So now he was standing behind the register and trying not to think about how badly Mickey would fuck him up.

Kash being there for his shift wasn't really helping his anxiety much; whenever his wife wasn't there, he would look at Ian with an expression matching that which he’d come to expect from Ned.  He hadn't tried anything yet, but was getting increasingly bold, and Ian was tired of it.

Wait, how did Kash even know he was gay?

That train of thought was interrupted by Mickey throwing the door open.

_Oh God, I’m going to die!  This is it, he’s going to shoot me or stab me or maybe strangle me or beat me to death.  I didn't get to see Carl this morning, I hope he knows I love him--_

“Calm the fuck down, Gallagher, Jesus!”

He didn't realize he'd been babbling apologies and promises of secrecy since Mickey walked in.

“You didn't fucking piss yourself, did you?” he laughed.

The fact that Ian had to check to make sure was almost as humiliating as it would've been if he’d actually done it.  “Shut up,” he mumbled, face burning.

“Christ, you should've seen your face!”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear.”  He could tell Mickey was making a conscious effort to hold in his laughter, so at least that was something.  Even if the teasing smile never left his face.

Actually, Ian found himself wishing it never would.

Mickey grabbed a magazine and leaned against the wall, idly flipping through it, looking completely relaxed and at ease.  Ian found it disturbing.   _Is this a trap?_

After twenty minutes of watching him out of the corner of his eye and the mounting anxiety of having to keep his body tensed to run, he cracked.  “Are you waiting until I get off or something?” he asked.

Mickey looked up at him.  “Waiting until you get off to do what?”

Ian gulped.  “Um...kill me?”

He snorted.  “Well would you rather I do it now?” he asked, tossing the magazine aside and locking the door before taking measured steps to the counter.

Ian backed away.  “N-no, I just meant...nevermind.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes.  “Look, Gallagher, just because I’m not killing you now doesn’t mean I won’t later, so just know that if you ever tell anyone _anything_ \--”

“Why would I tell?” he interrupted.  “They’d kill me too,” he pointed out.

Mickey quirked his eyebrows.  “So you’re gay.”

Ian cocked his head in confusion.  “...yeah.  Aren’t you?”

“The fuck you asking stupid fucking questions for?  Why the hell’d you run away if you’re gay?”

“I, um...can’t do sex.  I panicked.  Sorry.”  He could feel sweat gathering under his shirt collar.  He wished Mandy was here.  “Does your sister know?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

“No, and it’s gonna stay that way,” he said forcefully.  “The fuck does that mean, you can’t do sex?  You a virgin or something?”

He didn’t know the answer to that question.  “I’m, uh, not sure,” he admitted sheepishly, hands trembling.

“How the fuck can you not be sure?”

Ian was spared having to make something up by the appearance of Kash, back from the upstairs apartment.  He never thought he’d ever be relieved to see him.

“You can’t keep locking the door when you want to talk to your friends, Ian.  No wonder this place is always empty,” he chided.

“Sorry, Kash.  Won’t happen again.”

He came behind the counter to count candy bars, then opened the register to check the amount of cash, pressed closer than necessary to Ian’s side.

Mickey took in the way Ian flinched at the casual contact and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

He could tell by the way Kash patted Ian’s back that he was letting his hand linger, stroking down with the tips of his fingers.  Ian’s shoulders were stiff, his eyes fixed on a stain on the counter.

Kash smiled and walked away.  “I’ll be back in a couple hours.  I want you to stay late for as long as the door was locked, alright?”

Ian nodded mutely.

The bell over the door rang and Kash left, waving.

“That happen a lot?”

Ian’s eyes were wide when he looked up at Mickey, surprised to see him still there.  “What?”

“Your boss acting like a bitch in heat.”

“Oh.”  He bit his lip and twiddled his thumbs, unsure of how to answer.

There was an awkward moment of silence before Mickey broke it.  “Tell me if he ever touches you, alright?”

“What?” Ian stared at him, not entirely comprehending.  His mind was a mess, swirling with random snippets of conversations he’d had with Mandy about the same thing.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, exasperated.  “Just tell me if your pedo boss touches you, alright Mumbles?  Can you do that?  No wait, scratch that; kick him in the nuts and then tell me.”

He sounded annoyed, but Ian could hear the layer of concern beneath it.  “Okay,” he said quietly.

“Good.  Gimme some licorice.”

Ian laughed and handed him a pack from the shelf behind him.  He would always appreciate the fact that somehow the Milkoviches could make him laugh his discomfort away.  “That’ll be $1.87--hey!”

Mickey had stormed out.

 

* * *

 

Ian laid awake for hours that night, thinking about Mickey.  He’d stayed outside the store, eating his candy and glaring at Kash when he came back, but he’d disappeared after that.  Ian could still feel Mickey’s eyes on him, but he never saw him through the store windows.  Whenever Kash got too close for comfort, someone hurled pebbles at the window so that he would be forced to go outside to investigate.  He’d come back grumbling about the damn neighborhood kids and the cracks he would have to fix, bothered enough to leave Ian alone.

The Milkovich kids were the best thing to ever happen to him.

Mickey wanted to have sex, though, and Ian couldn’t give him that.  The thought saddened him for a bit, but he figured Mickey wouldn’t have stuck around outside for hours in the blistering heat to make sure he was okay if all he cared about was getting laid.  Or at least, he hoped.

And Mickey had called him that name.  Firecrotch.  It made the tips of his ears burn and a knot form in his stomach, but not in the same way as when Ned called him Ginger Snap.  The names essentially meant the same thing, but it felt different somehow, coming from Mickey's mouth.

 _Firecrotch_.

He hoped Mickey didn't make a habit of it, but he supposed he could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the chorus of "Video Games" by Lana DelRey, except I changed the gender.
> 
> "It's you, it's you, it's all for you,  
> Everything I do.  
> I tell you all the time,  
> Heaven is a place on Earth with you.  
> Tell me all the things you wanna do.  
> I heard that you like the bad [boys]  
> Honey, is that true?  
> It's better than I ever even knew.  
> They say that the world was built for two.  
> Only worth living if somebody is loving you.  
> Baby, now you do."


	6. I'm Ready to Suffer, I'm Ready to Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starts out kinda heavy. i teared up writing it, so be warned (then again maybe it's just me and i'm a big softie). this is still my favorite chapter, though

Usually August was his least favorite month; scorching heat, sweat-soaked shirts, and terrifying nightmares of what was to come for him when he returned to his father’s house on the last day plagued him for weeks on end.  The first August he’d spent with his siblings at eleven was a nightmare for all of them--he’d reverted back to bed-wetting, soiling his sheets nearly every night.  He would sob sincere apologies to Fiona while Lip watched stoically and held a frightened Carl, who cried whenever Ian did.  Fiona always brought him back to her room after putting his sheets in the wash, holding him and crying with him while he begged her to let him stay, pleading desperately with her to not send him back.

Her tearful answer was always the same. _"Oh, you have no idea how badly I want you to stay, Ian.  I’ll keep you for as long as I can, okay munchkin?  And I won’t let you go."_

His second August, at twelve, didn’t fare much better; he no longer wet the bed, but he vomited each time he had a wet dream and woke up to semen soaking his underwear.  Lip had thought that Ian was afraid of his erection because he didn’t know what to do with it, so he’d attempted to give him a sex talk.

Needless to say, it hadn’t helped.

His third August was disturbingly void of any overt signs of distress; he walked around numb, hardly speaking to anyone.  His family only knew he’d had a nightmare when they woke up to find him sleeping in the hallway outside of Fiona’s room or curled up at the foot of her bed.  Sometimes he would sleepwalk into Carl and Debbie’s room and stand in the doorway, watching them.  On the rare occasion that one of them woke up to find him in the middle of the night, they would take his hand and lead him to their bed; Debbie would sing him soft lullabies and Carl would simply curl up on his chest, offering him the only comfort they knew how to give.

He’d found out later that Fiona had been so worried about him that she’d taken to locking the medicine cabinet and the silverware drawer before she went to bed.  He’d even caught her rifling through his pockets one afternoon when she thought he was out with Lip.

_“You could’ve just asked me for whatever it is you're looking for,” he said hollowly.  He couldn’t even bring himself to be upset at her violation of privacy._

_“Yeah, because drug addicts are so honest,” she snarked.  “Just talk to me, Ian.  Please.”_

_“I’m fine, Fiona.  Please leave now.”_

Last year, the August he’d been fourteen, was a less severe version of the one before it.  He’d taken comfort in holding Liam, and they were often the only ones who could get the other to sleep.  Fiona had handed him a bottle of sleeping pills as an alternate solution.   _“I’m trusting you with these,” she said.  “Do you understand what that means?”  Her eyes were hard and her voice dangerous._

_“I’m not suicidal, Fi,” he answered quietly._

_“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered.  “Use only as directed, and I’ll be checking it every night to make sure the right amount’s in there.  You’re not overdosing on my watch.”_

_A lump grew in his throat.  “Thank you, Fiona.”_

_She melted at the look on his face, pulling him into a hug.  “I wish you would just talk to me, munchkin” she whispered.  “But I hope these help.”_

They hadn’t, but he didn’t tell her that.

This August he was fifteen, and the difference was remarkable enough that even Carl noticed it.

“You seem happier,” he observed one morning.

Ian’s spoonful of cereal stopped halfway to his mouth, considering his brother’s words.

Happier.

Carl was eight years old, and he remembered enough about the last four years to know that this version of Ian was something wholly different from anything he’d lived with before.  He knew that this time two years ago Fiona was ready to commit him, that last year she’d attempted to medicate him.  He could remember the bedwetting and the sleepwalking and Debbie’s lullabies, but he didn’t understand any of it.  

“Not happier,” Ian corrected.  “I’m happy.”

And he was.  It had been August for three weeks, and he hadn’t had any anticipatory nightmares.  There was no static buzzing in his head, no skin stretched too tight, no tightness in his chest.

Mandy and Mickey were magic, the cure to everything that ailed him, his deliverance.  He owed it all to them.

Carl looked confused.  “What’s the difference?”

“Happier’s the comparative form of happy, so when you say I’m happier, that means I’m more happy than I was before, right?”

“I guess.”

“Well the comparison doesn’t work if there was no happiness.  Kind of like math.”

He groaned.  “Now _words_ have math in them, too?”

“No, I just meant that if there’s nothing there, and then you try to make more of it...wait, nevermind, I don’t get math either.”

“Good.  Lip’s all over math and psychics now, and it’s annoying.”

Ian laughed.  “Physics.”

Carl shrugged.  “Same thing.”

 

* * *

 

The magic of being with the Milkoviches was addictive, and the three of them were inseparable.  If he wasn’t at their house smoking weed, he was wandering the city with them, making art that no one would ever see or appreciate with spray cans on the crumbling walls of abandoned buildings.  He only went home to sleep, if he could be bothered; most of the time he passed out on their couch.  He would wake to Mandy making breakfast, shower, and put on Mickey’s clothes.

Smelling Mickey on his skin and wearing his boxers was intoxicating, especially when paired with the look Mickey gave him every time he saw him.  It made him feel powerful and desirable, and it was the best high he’d ever gotten.

Sometimes the hypnotic scent combined with how drunk on power he was would mix with the weed and give him erections that he was incapable of handling, but Mickey never propositioned him again.  He always noticed when Ian had them, and he always smirked, but he never tried to touch him; he left Ian in his room alone and went to the kitchen with Mandy, where they waited for him to sit before they ate.

They were in a flirtationship, and Ian could feel himself getting sucked in deeper with each drag of a cigarette or puff of a joint or sip of beer.  Something was pulling to Mickey and keeping him there; whether it was a magnetic field or gravitational force or something more, he had no idea.  All he knew was that he didn’t want it to stop.

But as heavenly as his high was, it was hell for Fiona.

“Whose clothes are these?” she asked, throwing a pile of what he’d brought home that week at him.

“Mickey’s,” he answered easily.

Her eyebrows went up in surprise.  “Mickey Milkovich?”

“Do you know any other Mickeys?”

She looked taken aback by his response, but ignored it.  “Why am I washing his clothes?” she asked instead.

“Because I wear them.”

She picked up a pair of boxers and held them away from her body between the tips of her fingers, as if they were toxic.  “You two share underwear too?”

“So what if we do?” he said defensively.

“You wear another dude’s boxers?” Lip asked as he walked in and climbed up to his bed.  “That’s kinda gay, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes.  “Well would you rather I wore Mandy’s thongs after I showered there?” he challenged.

“I wasn’t aware their shower worked, actually.”

“Oh good one, Lip, real clever,” he sneered.  Lip put his hands up in surrender.

“Ian,” Fiona began, “in the four years you’ve been coming to stay here, you’ve never been...like this.”

“Do you want to go back to hiding the knives?”

“No, no, of course not, and I’m glad you’re so happy and you’re making friends, but...”

“But what?” he asked through clenched teeth, folding his arms.

She took a deep breath.  “Does it have to be them?  I feel like you went from my sweet little brother who hardly ever left the house to this wild child who runs with wolves practically overnight.”

“They’re not bad people, Fiona.  And I know for a fact that you ran with worse crowds when you were my age.”

She sighed.  “That’s not the point.  I just...don’t want you getting involved with anything too serious, okay?”

 _Too late_.

“Can you promise me that you won’t let them get you into anything too deep?”

_Already have._

“I swear.”

 

* * *

 

The trio of friends were enjoying their customary afternoon beer and reruns of 90s sitcoms before Ian noticed the time.

“Shit, _Boy Meets World_ is next?  I gotta get to work.”

Because of course by this point they knew what time it was by the line-up of shows.

“No, you can’t leave, this is the graduation episode!  Topanga’s gonna _propose_ , Ian!” Mandy whined, grabbing his wrist and trying to pull him back down to the couch.

“She’s right, man.  It’s a classic,” Mickey agreed.

He rolled his eyes.  “Well since you two like it so much, you can stay here and watch it.  I can’t afford that luxury.”

Mandy snorted.  “Yes, because clearly we’re living in the lap of luxury.”

“You know what I mean.  Linda will have my ass if I’m late again, and Kash always makes me stay past closing.”

Mickey’s eyebrows knitted together at the mention of Ian’s boss.  “Fuck that,” he said, standing.  “Let’s go.”

“You don’t have to come--”

“Fuck off, Freckles, we’re gonna be late.  Mandy, you comin’?”

“‘See, duckies are good, cuz not only do they give you that non-threatening sense of security, but you can feed 'em crackers and you can ride 'em. See, duckies are the horsies of the ocean. No, I mean they are!’  Hahahahaha.”

Ian and Mickey exchanged looks.  “I think she’s too far gone,” Ian said.

“Let’s just leave her here.”

“Um, Mandy?  We’ll be back later, okay?”

“‘It was one of those nights. You know the kind. Like day, but darker.’  This show is the best,” she chuckled, taking another sip from her bottle.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “She’s had a crush on Eric since we were kids,” he explained as they walked.

“Understandable.  But I was always more of a Shawn guy myself.”

Mickey grinned.  “Yeah, I bet you were.”

Ian shoved him playfully.  “Shut up.  Bet you were all over Cory.  I bet,” he grinned wickedly, “you memorized his little speech that he made to his mom about him and Topanga and then recited it to yourself every night before you went to sleep, wishing you could find someone to love you that much.”

Mickey looked stricken.  “Fuck off, Gallagher.”

Ian burst out laughing.  “Holy shit, you did!  You did, don’t deny it,” he said, poking Mickey’s sides.

He swatted his hands away irritably.  “Would you shut the fuck up already?  Jesus, this is the last time I give you alcohol.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a moment.  “Hey, Mick?”

“What?”

“It’s okay if you memorized Cory’s speech, ‘cause I memorized their wedding vows.”

Mickey nearly dropped his cigarette in disbelief.  “Shut up, you did not.”

“Did too!  ‘I wasn’t sure this day would ever come, but you were,’” he recited.

“No.”

“‘I wasn’t sure love could survive everything we put it through, but you were.’”

“I said no, Gallagher.”

“‘You were always strong and always sure.’”

“Jesus, will you shut up?”

“‘And now I know that I want you to stand beside me for the rest of my life. That’s what I’m sure of.’”

“Alright, you done now?  Got that outta your system?”

“Nope.  Now it’s time for Cory’s.”

Mickey lunged for him, and he dodged it, breaking into a run and calling out the lines over his shoulder.  “‘Ever since I was young, I never really understood anything about the world, and I never understood anything that happened in my life! The only thing that ever made sense to me was you--’ ow, fuck!”  Mickey had pegged his carton of cigarettes at his head.  “It’s gonna take more than that!” he taunted.  “Shit, you made me forget my place!”

“Good!  You sound like one of those girls who reads that _Tiger Beat_ shit!”

“Fuck off, you know you love it!”

They kept up their chase until they reached the store, pushing at each other in order to be the first one in.  They wound up squeezing through the door together, breathing heavily and laughing at themselves.

“Asshole,” Ian panted, smiling.

“Shithead, you know you love it,” Mickey returned.

The sound of Linda clearing her throat behind them drew their attention.  “If you two are done flirting, I have a proposition for you.”  She presented the bundle in her hands to Mickey.

He opened it, revealing it to be a vest with “SECURITY” emblazoned on the back.  “The fuck am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

“Wear it,” she deadpanned.  “Your shift starts in a few minutes.”

He quirked his eyebrows.  “What?”

She sighed.  “I’m giving you a job, genius.  You’ve been here so often that I’m surprised more of my inventory hasn’t gone missing, so I’m rewarding you for your good deeds.   _Don’t_ ,” she pointed her finger in his face, “make me regret it.”

He recovered from his surprise.  “I’m not cleaning up after anyone,” he warned.

“You’re right, you won’t; that’s Kash’s job.”

Mickey burst out laughing.  “Well alright then.  You got yourself a deal.”

She smiled.  “Excellent.  Now, I’ve got some errands to run, so I’ll be back after closing.  It’s inventory night, so get ready for some tedious counting.”

He rolled his eyes.  “I still gotta do that shit?”

She scoffed.  “Just make sure no one steals any of it then, alright?  Or is that too much for you, princess?”

Ian cackled at the glare Mickey shot at her.  “Alright, Jesus. Don’t get your burqa in a knot.”

“Do your job, and I won’t have to.  Ian,” she made a come hither motion with her hand, beckoning him to stand with her in front of the door.  “I installed cameras last week,” she said quietly.  “Is there anything you want to tell me about?”

His eyes widened.  “I, um...wh-what did you see?” he asked shakily.

“Enough,” she answered evenly.  “You and Mickey will be working the same shifts, understand?”

His throat burned with emotion and he blinked back tears as realization dawned on him, stunned by her concern for him.  “Thank you,” he whispered, nearly overwhelmed with gratitude.  “Thank you so much.”

She smiled sadly at him, patting his cheek.  “You’re a good kid.  Be careful.”  She turned back to her husband.  “I won’t be home for dinner.  Make sure the boys do their Qur'an activity book.”

Kash lifted his head to reply, but she’d already left.

Ian stood rooted to the spot, staring out the door for so long Mickey came over to him, wearing his vest.  “Ey,” he said, nudging him.  “The fuck was that all about?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “She...she’s a good person.”

“Well good for her.  Come on, Gallagher.  We got customers.”

“Right,” he said dazedly.  He took his place behind the counter and tried not to dwell too much on what Linda had said.

She knew.  She’d seen the various attempts Kash had made to get them alone, the winks and the nods and the lingering touches.  She knew, and she was trying to help him.  She knew that Mickey was the best way to help him.

The first half of their shift passed without incident; Ian made trades with some of the local homeless people, Mickey stopped two little twerps from stuffing candy into their pants, and Kash idly swept up the aisles when the store was empty.

After their dinner break, when no one had come in for a solid two hours, they decided to close up early and get started on their inventory.  Mickey’s in front with the candy and magazines, Ian’s in the freezer aisle, and Kash is in the stockroom.

Until he’s suddenly with Ian, counting gallons of milk.

The fact that he hadn’t heard Kash’s stealthy approach nearly made him drop one of the bottles.  Kash caught his hand before he could let go and brought his wrist up to put the milk he was holding on the shelf.  He didn’t let go, though; he ran his fingers up and down Ian’s arm, giving him goosebumps.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Ian,” he said quietly.  His breath fanned across Ian’s neck.

Ian couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.  His mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  The tightness in his chest was back, a closely compressed coil settling right in the center, making him breathe shallowly.  His skin was stretching too tight over his bones, itching over his knuckles.

He wanted to yell.  Punch.  Run.  Kick.  Anything.

He was frozen.

“And I can tell you’ve been thinking about me, too.”  He ran his other hand down Ian’s side, settling on his hip.

Blood was rushing to his his head, making him dizzy.  His ears were pounding.

Kash kept leaning closer.  “So what do you say we,” he paused to kiss under Ian’s jaw, “take this to the back?”

He was going to vomit.

_Just tell me if your pedo boss touches you, alright Mumbles?  Can you do that?  No wait, scratch that; kick him in the nuts and then tell me._

“What the _fuck_ is this?!”

Mickey.

Kash was suddenly pressed up against the freezer doors.  Ian collapsed, trying to control his breathing before he passed out on the floor.

“You like gropin’ on underage boys?” Mickey snarled, punching him in the face before dragging him back up and pinning him.

Kash put his arms up, trying to placate him.  “N-no, I wasn’t--”

Mickey kicked him in shins and punched him in the stomach.  “ _Shut up!_  Shut up and listen.  Listen _carefully_ , because I’m not going to repeat myself.”

He nodded frantically.

“We’re under new management, you hear me? There’s some new rules we gotta follow. No more drooling over him, you pathetic sack of shit. No more winks. No more of those ‘meet me in the freezer’ nods. No thinking about him, no looking at him, and _no fucking touching him_. Failure to comply will result in _immediate termination_ , if you catch my drift. And don’t try to sneak anything either, because believe me, I’ll fucking hear about it.”

He threw Kash to the floor, kicking his groin and glaring down at him.

The look on his face could have set him on fire.

Mickey turned to Ian, standing above him like an avenging angel.  “You good, Gallagher?”

Ian gave him a shaky nod.

“Good.  We’re leaving.”  He turned away and stalked out of the store.  Ian scrambled up to follow him.

They’d been walking for three blocks before Ian realized they were going to the Gallagher house.  “You’re walking me home?” he asked, voice raspy.

“Shut up,” Mickey answered shortly.

They spent the next few minutes walking in silence before Mickey asked Ian a question.  “You got asthma or somethin’?”

“No, why?”

“You were, uh, breathing funny back there.”

“Oh.  No, I just...get anxious sometimes.”

“Well you should get that checked.”

Ian smiled at his concern.

“Don’t,” Mickey ordered.

“Don’t what?”

“I know what you’re thinking.  Stop thinking it.”

Ian laughed.

“I mean it, Gallagher.  Goddammit, you’re so fucking annoying.”

“You know you love it,” he teased.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Yeah yeah, whatever.  Just get in the fucking house so I can go home.”

Ian smiled again and started up the stairs, stopping in the middle.  “Hey, um, M-Mick?”

“The fuck you stuttering for?”

He walked back down the stairs.  “N-nothing, just...” he trailed off and settled for simply wrapping his arms around him.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

It took a moment for Mickey to hug back; he squeezed Ian tightly around the middle, pressing the palm of his hand into his back.  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied.

Ian didn’t want to let go; the embrace was warm and smelling Mickey all around him made him feel so inexplicably _safe_.

Mickey pulled away reluctantly.  “Get some sleep, Ian,” he said softly.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, watching Mickey walk away.  “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the bridge of "Shake it Out" by Florence + The Machine.
> 
> "And I'm damned if I do, and I'm damned if I don't,  
> So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road.  
> And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope;  
> It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat,  
> 'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me.  
> Looking for heaven, found the devil in me.  
> Well what the hell I'm gonna let it happen to me, yeah"
> 
> I listened to sooo many songs trying to find something that would reconcile the brokenness of the opening with the rest of it, and that line in particular seemed to most capture the essence.


	7. Leave a Light, a Light On

Ian’s phone was ringing.

He’d been in the middle of one of the few good dreams he had--he and Mickey were in the place of Cory and Topanga during their wedding, with Mandy replacing Shawn as the best man--when the incessant drone cut through the air.  He hardly ever got calls, so he figured this must be important.

He knew it was when he saw the caller ID.

“Hello?” he asked hesitantly.

“Ian,” Linda said, relieved.  “Are you alright?  I watched last night’s tape.”

His insides felt as if they’d been doused with cold water.  “Y-you did?”

“Do you want me to call the police?”

He didn’t know what he’d expected from her, but it wasn’t that.  Her kindness struck him; she wanted to help him.  Linda Karib, who never let anyone intimidate her, who laughed in the face of danger, who expected excellence out of everyone, who raised her sons to fight a stigma that their father joked about, wanted to help him.  Her strength didn’t compel her to see him as weak, only encouraged her to share it with him.

“I’m, um, not sure.”

Calling the police would mean talking about it, and they’d want to know why he ~~didn’t~~ couldn’t fight back, why Mickey had to step in.  They would watch the tape and know how weak he was.  Or worse, they’d see some casual stroking and a hand on the hip and a small kiss, then Mickey going postal.  Mickey might get in trouble.

“That’s fine, whatever you’re comfortable with, okay?”  Her tone was soothing, as if he were a wounded animal she was trying to calm.  Maybe he was.  “I’ll still keep a copy, just in case.”

“Okay.  Is, um, is Kash alright?”

She snorted.  “For now,” she answered mysteriously.  “But he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”

“Maybe a little less than legal, but it’s for a good cause.  You won’t have to worry about him again.”

His throat burned with emotion.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh believe me, it’s my pleasure,” she replied warmly.  “You don’t have to come in this week if you don’t want to, I’ll still pay you for it.  It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to do that.  It’s fine, really.”

She thought it over for a moment.  “You and Mickey take today off, then come in tomorrow as scheduled.  And tell him to bring his sister, too.  Kash will be gone by tonight, so I’ll need an extra set of hands.”

 

He raced full tilt to the Milkoviches, running on pure elation.  He may have been laughing, or whooping, he wasn’t sure, but the smile on his face felt too wide, much wider than what he was used to.

“Mickey!” he called as he burst through their front door.  “Mandy!  Guys, come on!”

Mandy was still snoring when he opened her door, so he bounced onto her bed to tickle her awake.  “Wake up, get up, you piece of shit!”

“Ow, what the fuck?  Get the fuck off me, Ian!”

“Jesus, Gallagher, when I said I’d see you tomorrow I was hoping that meant I got to sleep for a few hours,” Mickey appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

Ian let out a delighted laugh.  “It’s about Kash!”

Mickey’s demeanor changed immediately, back straight and shoulders tense.  “What a-fucking-bout him?  He go to your house last night?  He do somethin’?”

“Linda got rid of him!  He’s gone!  Isn’t it great?” he turned around and let himself fall back onto Mandy’s bed, sighing contentedly.

“Oh.”

Mandy shot up, straddling Ian’s waist.  “That’s fantastic!  But did you really have to come barreling in here at 8:30 in the morning?  Mickey needs his beauty rest.”

“Hey, fuck you. I’m beautiful.”

Their exchange prompted another set of giggles to erupt from Ian, and he knew he could probably lay there with them all day.

Linda’s news had him so happy that he almost forgot that at the end of the week, his father would be coming for him.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Ian and Mickey reported to the Kash and Grab the next day, with Mandy in tow.  Linda greeted them all with warm smiles and a small pat on the shoulder for Ian.

“We have a few business matters to take care of, kids,” she said, walking to the counter.  “First off, you--” she handed an envelope to Mickey “--are getting a raise. Your good citizenship is appreciated.”

He was speechless, holding the envelope almost reverently.  Mandy elbowed him.  “Oh, um, thanks,” he said sheepishly.

Ian found the fact that Mickey turned into a blushing schoolboy when given praise extremely adorable.

“You,” she said, facing Mandy now, “are hereby given a job.  One of my employees has mysteriously vanished, and I need someone to take his place short notice.”

Mandy too was rendered speechless, only just managing to whisper a quiet “Thank you” when she accepted the smock that was handed to her.

Ian would have found it endearing, but then it occurred to him that the reason they seemed so uncomfortable and unsure was because they were so unused to being treated kindly; they simply didn’t know how to react to Linda’s generosity, reverted back to small children who shuffled their feet under the scrutinizing stare of authority figures, always expecting to be reprimanded.

Linda turned to him, handing him an envelope of his own.  “Ian, despite the fact that you’ve only been here for one summer, I can say without a doubt that you’re the best employee this store has ever had.  So, I’d like to give you your Christmas bonus a bit early.”

His eyebrows shot up.  “Christmas bonus?” he repeated.

She shrugged, giving him a small smile.

“You’re not bribing us not to say anything, are you?” Mickey asked.  Mandy whacked him on the arm, glaring.

“No, I’m not bribing you.  Jesus,” she said, exasperated.  “Ever heard of kindness?”

“No such thing as free lunch,” he replied.

“You don’t eat here for free.  And if I catch you making any of your famous five-finger discounts, you’re out of here.”

“Noted.”

His smirk was met with a withering stare.  “Don’t act cute, Milkovich; it doesn’t suit you.”

Mandy laughed.  “I like her.”

“Then you’ll just _love_ working here,” Linda deadpanned.  “Get started, I’m not paying you to socialize.”

 

In the week that the three of them worked under her, Linda Karib somehow became the mother that none of them had, but so desperately needed.  She made sure they ate, gave them refuge when they needed to get away, and had even allowed them to watch her sons while she ran errands.

It felt like they’d been settled into the routine for years, but Ian knew their time was limited.

His three-month reprieve was over.

 

* * *

 

Fiona knocked softly on the door, staring at Ian’s prone body on his bed.  Carl was curled around him, clutching at his sides and drooling, but Ian didn’t seem to notice.

She could tell from his blank stare burrowing into the ceiling that he hadn’t slept.  “I’m making French toast and scrambled eggs,” she said quietly.  “Even got you some strawberries.”

He didn’t respond.

“There’s Ovaltine too, so you can make your chocolate milk just the way you like it.”

Silence.

She sucked in a shaky breath and made her way over to his bed.  “Need any help packing?”

He shook his head.

Her eyes welled with tears and her throat caught.  “I...I know this is hard on you,” she began, “and I know you don’t want to go, but you _have_ to know that as badly as you want to stay, there are people who would kill to keep you here.  Carl’s pretty inventive, and Lip could probably help him get away with it, but Debbie talked them out of it.”

She knew he wasn’t listening, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.  Even though she was used to this goodbye by now, she found it harder and harder to get the words out each year.

Lip watched them from his bunk.  He hadn’t slept either.

After a few minutes more of Fiona’s quiet chatter, Debbie and Liam appeared in the doorway.  “Can’t he stay?” Debbie asked tearfully.  “Just this once?  Please?”

Fiona beckoned them over to Ian’s bed.  “We don’t make the rules, Debs,” she whispered into her shoulder.  “This is just the way it is.”

Ian continued to stare blankly at the ceiling.

Debbie watched him, crying.  “But I don’t want him to go.”

“None of us do, Debs,” Lip said hoarsely.

Liam climbed up the bed and sat on Ian’s stomach, gripping at his T-shirt and giggling.  The movement woke Carl and seemed to jar Ian from his reverie, and he finally looked at them: his family, crowded around his bed, lamenting the fact that he had to leave.

It was the day of reckoning.

“What if we tell Uncle Clayton he died?” Carl suggested.  “They won’t come looking for him again.”

“We’re not faking anyone’s death, Carl,” Fiona chided.  “We had enough of that with Frank.”

“And besides,” Lip added, “we’d need a lot more time to plan; day-of is sort of last minute, bud.”

“Then we’ll try it next year?” he asked hopefully.

Fiona squeezed his hand.  “Sure thing, monkey.  Next year.”

They all heard the lie.  They knew next year would be the same as all the rest.

The family sat in silence for another few minutes before Fiona plastered a fake smile on her face and tried to rally them.  “Breakfast in a bit, guys.  Someone get in the shower.”  She brushed her fingers lightly against Ian’s foot before she stood up.

He could feel the spot burning with all the love she’d put into the gesture.  It made him want to cry.

“You gonna talk today?” Lip asked once everyone else had filed out.  “You didn’t last year.  Kinda hurt Debbie’s feelings.”

Whatever words he wanted to say tasted like ash in his mouth, so he swallowed them down instead, burning his throat.

“I know it’s hard, but don’t be a dick, man.  Ignoring us is a shitty thing to do.”

He knew Lip was trying to make him laugh, or smile, or even look at him, but he couldn’t.  He knew that if he did he would lose it.

“Oh well.  At least you’ll get to see Jane, yeah?  She’s eight, right?  Same as Carl?”

Jane would be nine in October.  Her birthday was the same day as Debbie’s.  His chest constricted at the thought of her.

“Ah, that Malcolm, though.  You’ll have to watch him.”

Malcolm had turned twelve in July; Lucy would probably chew him out for not calling, just like she did every year.

“And Lucy’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”

Yes.  Her cutting glare simultaneously had the ability to invoke a nearly uncontainable rage within him and reduce him to feeling like nothing more than muck on her shoe.  Or worse, the insignificant speck of dust on her blouse that she didn’t even notice.

Lip blathered on for a bit longer, knowing that Ian wouldn’t respond, but also knowing that he enjoyed hearing him talk.  Hearing their voices kept him grounded while he floated away in his head.

His siblings rotated in and out of the room, taking shifts with him after their showers while the next one down the line bathed.  They all filled the silence with incessant chatter:

“But maybe I am getting a bit old for dolls.  What do you think?”

“And Kev never lets me borrow their toaster anymore, but it’s important!  Melted Man is for science!”

Liam crawled around on the bed, playing with Ian’s toes and laughing to himself.

When it was Ian’s turn for the shower, there was no hot water left, but that was an unspoken rule in the house, ever since he’d burned himself the morning after Mandy’d slept over.

His movements were robotic, and he hardly noticed the cold water biting at his skin.  He stood under the spray for a long time, watching the rivulets trail down his body and imagining playing connect the dots with the droplets that clung to the freckles on his legs.

The cold was beginning to seep into him, and he didn’t know which was worse; the ice in his chest or the ice running down his back.

He wondered idly if he could die like this, if a nearly freezing shower was enough to tinge his skin blue and render him unconscious.

She burst in as if she could sense where his thoughts were headed.

Mandy.

“Come on, Ian,” she said softly, turning off the water.  “You’ve been in there long enough.”  She held out a fluffy towel to him, but he didn’t move.

He wondered if his joints had locked into place.

She sighed and wrapped the towel around him, keeping her arms up to embrace him.  “Christ, you’re freezing.  Let’s get you dressed, come on.”

He was led to his room and arranged on his bed.  Mandy rooted around in his pile of not yet packed clothes, putting together an outfit for him.  He could smell it as soon as she laid the items on the bed, could smell the sweat and cigarettes and something bitter and metallic but also warm and _safe_.

She’d laid Mickey’s clothes out for him.

He stared at the black T-shirt with a white skull glaring out at whomever got in the wearer’s way, the worn grey sweatpants that cuffed at the bottom, the dingy boxers Fiona had confronted him with, and felt tears sting his eyes.

She gave him a knowing smile before turning around, giving him privacy to get dressed.  Once he finished, she laid with him on his bed, holding his hand and staring up at the same spot on the ceiling.

She didn’t speak, and he found himself vomiting out the words he’d swallowed earlier.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered brokenly.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered back.

Speaking had opened the floodgates, and sobs clawed their way out of his throat before he could stop them.  “M-Mandy,” he cried, reaching for her.  She immediately turned over and wrapped her arms around him, stroking up and down his back, just like she had at the playground.  He could feel her tears leaking out and her mascara inking his skin.

This was their Release, and they clung to each other in hopes that they wouldn’t get swept up by the waves.

 

* * *

 

Once they’d composed themselves and stuffed Ian’s clothes haphazardly into his suitcase, they made their way downstairs, holding hands.  The Gallaghers were milling about, a plate of French toast and a bowl of eggs sitting in the center of the table.

“He lives,” Lip said.  “We can finally eat.”

Ian managed to crack a smile.

Mickey was standing apart from his family by the washing machine, biting his nails.  Ian stopped short when he came into view, and felt himself start to choke up again.

They stared at each other for a moment, and suddenly they were meeting in the middle and hugging.  Neither of them knew who initiated it, and they would both later insist it had been the other.

“If you fucking cry on me I’ll kick your fucking ass,” Mickey warned quietly.

Ian choked out a laugh and squeezed Mickey tighter.  “Promise?”

Mickey snorted and shoved Ian away from him lightly.  “You’re such a fucking freak, dude.”

“Uh, if you two are done with your foreplay, some of us have been waiting to eat Ian’s favorite breakfast all morning,” Lip quipped.

Ian chuckled and took the empty seat next to Mandy, and Mickey settled in next to Ian.  It escaped none of the Gallaghers notice--except perhaps Liam--that Ian was exponentially more comfortable now that the Milkoviches were there.

With Mandy’s firm hand on his leg and Mickey’s ankle tangled with his throughout the meal, Ian felt more grounded than ever.  He floated like a balloon tethered to a child’s wrist; constantly trying to soar away, but always brought back from the brink.

His family tried to make breakfast cheerful rather than subdued, but the effect left a lot to be desired.  Still, their effort to maintain normalcy was appreciated, and he found himself in a good enough mood to smile while he helped Fiona with the dishes.  She kissed his shoulder, whispering that she loved him into the skin and then rubbing it, as if trying to make him absorb it.

His throat was too scratchy from all of the emotions he’d been bottling up, so he settled for gripping her hand tightly to return the sentiment.  Her smile told him she’d understood.

Carl and Debbie, doing their part to act normally for his sake, had started up a video game tournament.  He could hear Mickey and Mandy placing bets and Lip acting as bookie over the din of the game’s sound effects and Debbie screaming, “Eat my ass!”

He and Fiona walked to the living room together, leaning against the wall and watching the action.

“It’s Mickey, isn’t it.  Not Mandy?” she asked quietly.

He froze in surprise.

“Or is it both of them?” she sniggered.

He floundered, and she took pity on him.  “It’s fine, your secret’s safe with me,” she said, smiling.  “Now go get your boy.”

She pushed him lightly in Mickey’s direction with a wink, and Ian had never loved his sister more.

Mickey was standing at the stairs, engrossed in the television.  “Killer Carl needs to step his game up, I got twenty bucks on this.”

Ian laughed.  “Sorry man, but you’re gonna have to give it up.  We learned a long time ago not to mess with Debbie when it came to this stuff.”

He groaned.  “Couldn’t have told me that before I put money up?  Jesus, Gallagher, you fucking suck.”

They watched Carl lose miserably in a comfortable silence.  “I told Mandy,” Mickey said suddenly.

“Told her what?”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “You know what, man.  Don’t make me say it again.”

Ian beamed.  “Wow, how’d she take it?”

“She fucking laughed her ass off, that’s how she took it.  Said she’d known since we were kids or some shit like that.”

“Well crying yourself to sleep for weeks because Cory and Topanga broke up is kind of a big hint,” Ian teased.

“Fuck off.”

They laughed together for a bit before Ian shared news of his own.  “Fiona figured us out.”

“Your sister?”

They turned to look at her and found her watching them.  She waved, grinning.

“Guess it could be worse,” Mickey posited.

“Yeah.  Could definitely be worse,” Ian agreed.

For a moment he stared at Mickey leaning casually against the side of the staircase as if he belonged there, at his family scattered around the living room, at his best friend jumping up and down with his little sister and celebrating their victory, and allowed himself to bask in the togetherness.  He gave himself time to drink it all in, the happiness and love and trust.  He put himself in a bubble of the simple joys of being with his family, his _only_ family, and allowed himself the pleasure of imagining that this was all he would do for the rest of the morning, that the only reason he would have to leave the house would be to go to work, that no one would come for him.

A series of sharp knocks on the front door shattered the illusion.

Everyone froze and held their breath.  The atmosphere was dead, as if something had sucked all the air out of the room.

They all knew what was waiting on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the first verse of "Midnight" by Coldplay.
> 
> "In the darkness before the dawn,  
> In the swirling of the storm,  
> When I'm rolling with the punches, and hope is gone,  
> Leave a light, a light on."


	8. Darkness, Darkness Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is more expository of ian's relationship with the other set of gallaghers. ned will make his first appearance in the next one (dun dun dunnnnnnn).
> 
> oh and spoilers for the golden compass, i guess.

Ian could feel the skin on his neck begin to tingle.  Mandy walked over to stand with him, grabbing his wrist and pressing against his pulse point.  Mickey shifted his weight subconsciously so that he was slightly in front of him, their arms brushing against each other.  He appreciated the contact, but couldn't voice it around the lump in his throat.

Fiona gave him a sad smile as she crossed him to open the door.

He could hear his father's voice once she opened it.  "Fiona!" he said happily.  Ian knew Clayton was hugging her, like he did every time he saw her; Clayton loved his nieces and nephews, which made hating him a lot harder.  "How are you?" he asked warmly.

"Fine.  We've been doing just fine," Fiona replied.  Her voice was quiet, and Ian knew there was a deep sadness on her face, the kind of sadness that only came from loss.

Clayton could see it too, and his voice was saturated in regret.  "Look, I know this isn't easy for you--"

"No, no, I understand.  Don't worry about it."  She brushed him off, but Ian knew she was masking her pain until later.  She would clutch his pillow and cry herself to sleep in his bed tonight, Carl and Debbie curled around her on both sides, while Lip watched them from his bunk, holding Liam.

Clayton put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, giving her a small smile before stepping around her and into the living room.  His face broke into a wide smile when he saw his son.  "Ian!  It's so good to see you."

Ian was unresponsive to the hug his father gave him, but he did find his scent comforting.  "Hey, Dad," he said quietly.

"Oh, who are your friends?" Clayton asked as he pulled away.

"Mandy and M-Mickey," he answered, blushing at his stutter.

Clayton didn't draw attention to it, which Ian appreciated.  "It's a pleasure to meet you both."  He extended his hand to Mandy, who shook it, and then Mickey, who didn't even glance at it.  He'd kept up the same hard stare since Clayton first came into view.

He cleared his throat and let his hand drop awkwardly to his side, but quickly recovered, making the rounds to the rest of the Gallaghers.  "Lip!  Excited for your senior year?"

"Definitely.  Should be just as fulfilling as the other ones," he deadpanned.

Clayton wasn't even fazed by his sarcasm, and simply turned to address Debbie.  "You're starting to hit your growth spurt, I can tell.  No more dolls for Christmas this year, then?"

In an effort to forge a relationship with his estranged brother's children, he'd taken to sending them birthday cards and Christmas presents each year since Ian had come to live with him.  For the first two years, they were thrown away out of spite, but after the third, when it seemed he was going to keep sending them, they became more receptive.

"Maybe I could get a phone this time?" she asked hopefully.

"What for?" Carl chimed in.  "You don't talk to anyone."

She elbowed him and glared.

Clayton looked to Fiona, who shook her head.  "Maybe next year, Debs," he said, patting her cheek.  "Carl, what about you?  Still into action figures?"

"Trying to make my own, actually," he said proudly.  "I'm inventing Melted Man."

Clayton's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "Well I sincerely hope you succeed."  He turned away from them and walked to Liam's playpen.  "And how are you, big guy?" he cooed, picking him up.  "You remember me?  I'm Uncle Clayton."

Liam smiled at him, grabbing at his nose.

"What does Liam want for Christmas?  Does he want a toy truck?  Hungry Hippos?"

A car horn blaring from outside interrupted him.  He put Liam back in his playpen with a kiss on the forehead.  "Sorry about that, guys, Lucy gets impatient," he said sheepishly.  "Do you have everything, Ian?"

Ian nodded shakily.

Clayton looked over at all of them, smiling despite the tension settling in.  "I'll just be right outside," he said, rubbing Ian's shoulder.  He passed Fiona on his way out, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an envelope.  "Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

She handed it back to him, already knowing what it was.  "We'll be fine, Clayton."

He rolled his eyes.  "Will you just take it?  We do this every year.  You need it more than I do, you can put it in that winter fund you guys keep."

She look at him searchingly and he pressed the check back into her hands.  "Please, Fiona.  I'll sleep better at night."

The look on his face was so sincere, his eyes so open and genuine; she hated it.  She hated that she could see how honest he was being, that she looked at his face and saw Ian in all of his features, that he always tried to help them out.  She hated that he cared so much, because then she always felt guilty for hating him.

"Okay," she relented.

He smiled, relieved.  "Thank you."  He turned to face the rest of them.  "I'll see you on Thanksgiving.  And you two," he addressed the Milkoviches, "feel free to come visit Ian any time you like."

Mickey snorted, and Ian couldn't help but agree with him; he knew that Lucy would never allow it.

The horn blasted through the air again, longer this time.  Clayton's smile became strained, and he looked to Ian apologetically.  "I don't want to rush you, but you know how she can be."

Ian's hands began to tremble.  He nodded his understanding and watched his father walk outside.

Debbie and Carl were on him in a flash, clinging to his waist.  He rubbed their backs absently, looking across the room at Lip and Liam.  "I'll be back for Thanksgiving," he reminded them quietly.  "And Christmas."

"You better," Fiona mumbled, embracing him over her younger siblings' heads.

Lip clapped him on the back, and Liam pulled at his hair.  "Keep your phone on, you're my first call when I get arrested."

Ian rolled his eyes.  "I already told you, I'm not shelling out bail money."

"Oh yes you fucking are!  Gotta use Daddy Warbucks to our advantage."

They grinned at each other before embracing.  "Asshole," Ian whispered in his ear.

"Dickhead," Lip threw back.

Mandy was next, throwing her arms around his neck tightly.  "Call me if you need me."

He squeezed her and felt the lump return.  "You too."

Mickey merely looked at him.  "You already got your fucking hug.  This ain't  _Gone with the Wind_ , Gallagher.  Just fucking go."

Ian laughed, and kept the smile when, despite his words, Mickey grabbed his suitcase to carry for him.  "Stop," Mickey commanded.

"Stop what?  I didn't do anything."

"Yes you fucking did, you're thinking again."

They bickered good-naturedly down the porch steps and out to Clayton's waiting car.  "Sweet ride, dude," Mickey remarked.

Ian shrugged.  He'd never really cared about cars.

Clayton popped the trunk for the suitcase, and while they were arranging it with the stuff that was already back there, Mickey shuffled his feet awkwardly.  "Look, you can, uh, call me too, if you want."

Ian stopped and stared at him in disbelief.  Mickey rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably under his gaze.  "Stop fuckin' gawkin' at me, man."

He snapped his mouth shut.  "I, um, don't have your number," he mumbled.

Mickey pulled Ian's phone out of his back pocket.  "Yeah you do."

Their fingertips touched when Mickey handed it back to him, and the sweet burn shot up Ian's arm like wildfire.

"Jesus Christ, man, stop fucking  _thinking_."

"I wasn't thinking anything!"

"Yeah, okay tough guy.  Just get in the fucking car."

"Um, excuse me?" Ian's stepmother's grating voice floated out of the car.  "Do you mind not using that language in front of my children?  Honestly."

Mickey narrowed his eyes at her.  "It's not gonna make their ears bleed, lady.  I'm sure they've heard it before."

She turned back to glare at them from the passenger seat.  "Get in the car, Ian," she gritted out.  " _Now._ "

Ian rubbed his clammy hands on his sweatpants and took a deep breath.  "S-See you around, I guess."

He couldn't decipher the look on Mickey's face, but there was a steely determination in his eyes that he hadn't seen before.  "Yeah.  You will."

 

* * *

 

 The car ride was stuffy, as it always was.  Jane and Clayton were the only ones who were ever happy to see him, and with Lucy complaining to her husband in hushed tones as per usual, there was only Jane's constant chatter and Malcolm's occasional scathing comments to fill the silence.

"I got a new book!" she announced proudly.  " _The Golden Compass_.  It's really cool!"

"Oh yeah?  What's it about?"

She launched into a synopsis, speaking so quickly that Ian only caught disparate phrases--"her uncle is actually her  _father_ , can you believe it?" "and they  _kill_ the kids to power their machine" "oh and Mrs. Coulter's her mom!"

"Wow," he said when she'd finally stopped.  "You read all that by yourself?"  She'd been having some trouble with comprehension, last time he'd checked.

"Well Uncle Ned helped me a lot.  He said reading together would help us stop missing you so much.  He took turns with Daddy, reading me different chapters."

Ian's stomach dropped.  He felt himself being pulled in different directions; dread because  _of course_ Ned had missed him, fear because  _fuck_ he was using his sister against him  _again_ , relief because  _Clayton was there too thank God_.

"Don't know why anyone would miss you," Malcolm muttered under his breath.

Jane was quick to run to his defense.  "He's a lot fucking nicer than  _you,_ " she shot at him.

Lucy turned so quickly Ian thought she'd get whiplash.  "Jane Elizabeth Gallagher!" she cried shrilly.  "We do  _not_ use that language, do you understand me?  Never!"

Jane put her head down, looking properly admonished, but Ian could see her grinning.

Lucy faced the windshield again, continuing her argument with Clayton.  "You see?  It's even bad for  _our_ kids, you can't keep letting him go back there."

"I gave my word to his sister that I would take him back, and I intend to keep it," he responded.

She scoffed.  "Oh please, she was a teenager.  What were you doing making that kind of commitment with a teenager anyway?  And besides, it's only going to get worse from here, did you see that hooligan he was with?"

"He's making friends, Lucy," Clayton said quietly.  "Please, just leave it."

"You want him having friends like that?  I'm telling you, you need to put your foot down and stop sending him to stay with those people--"

"They're my family, Lucy," Ian cut in.  "You had one of those, didn't you?  Or were you hatched in a lab?"

Jane and Clayton burst out laughing, though Clayton was quick to stifle his.  Lucy and Malcolm wore identical scandalized looks.  "You see?  He just made my point!  He comes back more vulgar and disrespectful every year, the little bastard."

"Hey!" Clayton shot her a sharp look.  "Don't talk about him that way, I shouldn't have to keep asking you."

"And I shouldn't have to take care of the kid you had with your brother's wife!"

An awkward silence settled over the car.  Ian kept his face blank; he was used to these arguments by now.  Jane grabbed his hand in a show of solidarity, but Malcolm sniggered.

Clayton sighed.  "Lucy--"

"I don't want to hear it right now."  She turned away from him defiantly, looking out of her window for the remainder of the ride.

When Clayton pulled into the parking lot of their local Target, Lucy was the first one out of the car, walking purposefully into the store.  Malcolm followed after her, leaving Ian and Jane with their father.  "Ian, about that--"

Ian cut off his apology.  "It's fine, Dad.  It's nothing I haven't heard before."

"You still shouldn't have to go through it," he said regretfully, putting an arm around Ian's shoulders.

"Mom's a bitch, Daddy," Jane said matter-of-factly.

Clayton laughed at her.  "She isn't always, sweetheart.  And you shouldn't curse around her, I told you; it's our little secret."

The words and the private grin they shared made Ian slightly uncomfortable, but he swallowed it down, slinging his little sister over his shoulder instead.  "Hey!" she protested.  "Put me down!"

"Nope," he said, tickling the back of her knee.  "I haven't seen you in three months; I've got a lot to make up for."

"No!" she squealed, thrashing.  "Not in public, please!  I'll die of humiliation!"

He and Clayton laughed at her antics, and he set her down once they made it into the store.  "You want to push the cart, or be in it?" he asked.

"I think I can handle pushing this year."

They set off down the aisles, more concerned with finding Christmas presents for Ian's siblings than back to school shopping.  Clayton pulled various items from the shelves and asked Ian's opinion on them for each sibling.  He always started with the youngest, since they were the easiest to shop for, and so far he'd racked up [sensory puzzle blocks](http://www.target.com/p/edushape-sensory-puzzle-blocks/-/A-13563444#prodSlot=medium_1_17), a [remote racer car](http://www.target.com/p/vtech-remote-racer-smart-car/-/A-13355063#prodSlot=medium_1_28), and a [tablet](http://www.target.com/p/vtech-little-apps-tablet/-/A-14548558#prodSlot=medium_1_40) for Liam; a [nerf gun](http://www.target.com/p/nerf-n-strike-elite-stryfe-blaster/-/A-14280612?intc=8675309_hl14280612_null&lnk=other_lnk=other_sb_hl_qi_x1y1)\--"Fiona won't like that"--a pair of nunchuks--"Dad.  Fiona will kill you"--and a chemistry set--"seriously, he'll burn the house down"--for Carl; and a [friendship bracelet kit](http://www.target.com/p/it-s-so-me-friendship-bracelets-kit/-/A-14046164#prodSlot=medium_3_1) and [memo board](http://www.target.com/p/it-s-so-me-memo-board-room-decor-kit/-/A-14046101#prodSlot=medium_3_7) for Debbie.  Lip and Fiona were always trickier.

"You'll have to get Lip a gun too, otherwise it'll be anarchy.  But give Fiona the biggest one," Ian instructed.

"He can't give everyone else guns and not Debbie and Liam!  That's not fair," Jane said.

"Then either they all get guns or no one gets guns."

Clayton wound up getting everyone guns.

"This is a  _bad idea_ , Dad.  You don't know them like I do, they'll destroy the house and lose all their ammo."

"But they'll be having fun while they're doing it!  This is a good thing, Ian.  Let them enjoy themselves for a change."

They went to the book section of the store for Lip, deciding on _The Catcher in the Rye_ and a  _Game of Thrones_  box set.  "We should encourage Carl to read more," Clayton mused.

Ian rolled his eyes.  "He'll just rip the pages out and use the paper for spit balls."

He shrugged.  "Can't hurt to try."

So they wound up adding  _Lord of the Flies_ and  _The Walking Dead: Book One_ for him, as well as  _The Secret Garden_ and  _The Da Vinci Code_ for Debbie.  "That'll just make her paranoid," Ian warned.  "She start watching the History channel looking for conspiracies."

"She'll be more informed and aware," Clayton corrected.

"Whatever you say," he muttered.

Fiona's books were more difficult; they couldn't quite nail down her tastes.  Clayton originally suggested the  _50 Shades_ trilogy, but Ian talked him out of it--"No.  Fuck no.  Just...no.  It's not happening"--deciding instead on  _Pride and Prejudice_ and the series  _True Blood_ was based on, as well as an [all body massager](http://www.target.com/p/wahl-grey-all-body-therapeutic-massager/-/A-14041789#prodSlot=medium_1_2&term=massager).

Jane could no longer handle pushing the cart.  "This is a bit much, don't you think?" Ian fretted.  "And you already gave Fiona that five hundred dollar check."

"You let me worry about the money, son."

"Lucy will have your ass when she sees the charges on your credit card."

Clayton rolled his eyes.  "Let me worry about Lucy, too."

Speaking of the devil, she appeared behind them with Malcolm and an armful of clothes.  "What's all this?" she asked, eyeing their pile.

Her voice startled Clayton.  "Oh, um--Christmas presents."

She quirked an eyebrow.  "Christmas presents?  It's August."

"Yeah, well...you never know," he supplied lamely.

"I don't know why you insist on spoiling them, too.  Are there more illegitimate children in that brood?"

"It's not spoiling them if they won't get anything else," Clayton replied.  "And even if they did, they're my nieces and nephews.  I'm allowed to get them gifts."

She clucked her tongue.  "Well you're done for the day; we're here for school, not to play Santa."

Jane mimicked her mother behind her back as her parents walked away, pulling a face and making her voice nasally.

Malcolm pinched her.  "Don't do that.  It's rude."

"Well she was rude first."

"Mom was making a point.  You're allowed to be rude when you do that."

"Oh yeah?  Says who?"

"Says mom."

Jane laughed.  "Yeah, because she's such a reportable source."

"It's  _reputable_ , stupid.  Maybe that's why you can't read--you can't talk either."

"Shut up," she said, blushing.  "I can too read."

Malcolm laughed cruelly.  "Yeah, picture books.  You're still on Dr. Seuss, and you can't even get through those without help."

Tears threatened to leak out of her eyes.  "Shut up!"

He began to imitate her.  "'You h-have b-brains in your h-head.  You have f-feet in your sh-shoes.  You can st-steer y-yours-self in any dir-direc-direxion you ch-choose.'"

"Stop it!" she cried.

Ian couldn't take it any more, grabbing Malcolm by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around.  "Listen, you little prick," he threatened.  "You talk to her like that again and I'll dunk your head in the toilet.   _After_ I shit in it."  He pushed him for good measure, which was exactly when Lucy and Clayton reappeared.

"How  _dare_ you touch my son?" she hissed, glaring murderously down at him.

"He was--"

"I don't care, you little ingrate!  You know he's delicate," she said, stroking Malcolm's hair.  Malcolm grinned at him from his place in his mother's bosom.

Ian snorted.  "Delicate my ass!  He's a piece of shit!"

She slapped him so hard he could already feel the image of her hand imprinted on his reddened cheek.

Clayton was there in a flash, pushing Ian behind him.  "Don't you ever hit my son again," he warned her.  His voice was deadly quiet, and Ian could only imagine the fire in his eyes.

Lucy opened her mouth, but Clayton shot her down.  "I don't want to hear it.  Don't hit my kids.  It's not up for discussion."

A security guard approached them, and they became aware of the people who had stopped to stare at them during the exchange.  "Is there a problem here?" the heavyset man asked.

Clayton eyed his wife for a moment longer before turning to him.  "No, sir.  We were just heading to check-out, we'll be out of here soon."

The man turned to Ian.  "You okay, kid?"

His face still stung, both from the blow and from embarrassment, but he'd suffered through worse under Frank's care.  "I'm fine," he said stiffly.

The guard stepped aside, escorting them to a check-out lane and supervising their progress, even watching them pack the car.

No one spoke on the way home, which Ian was both thankful for and regretful of.  Because now he had nothing to distract him from what was waiting for him behind the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the second verse of "You Are the Moon" by The Hush Sound.
> 
> "Darkness, darkness everywhere,  
> Do you feel alone?  
> The subtle grace of gravity,  
> The heavy weight of stone."


	9. My Old Friend

Lucy was out of the car as soon as Clayton parked in the driveway.  Malcolm made to follow her, but Clayton stopped him.  "Come on, bud, help us with this stuff."

He hesitated before begrudgingly grabbing the bag full of Liam's toys and and the bag of nerf guns and hauling them inside.  Jane followed quietly behind him with some of the clothes her mother bought and Debbie's presents, shuffling her feet.  Ian was just as quiet, he and Clayton bringing up the rear with the books and massager.  He paused outside the front door, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation.  His father nudged him in the back.  "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," he replied quietly.  He hated how raspy his voice was.

Clayton squeezed his shoulder and gave him a small smile.  Ian could read a lot of regret in his eyes:  _I'm sorry I brought you here, I'm sorry you're dealing with this, I'm sorry you're my son, I'm sorry I love you so much._

Before Ian could respond to the look, his phone pinged in his pocket.  He dropped the bag of books in the doorway and toed off his shoes, pulling it out.  There was a text from someone who'd been labeled as "This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling" waiting for him.

_you good?_

The simple two word message brought a lump to his throat.  Mickey had been worried about him?

Another message appeared.

_and i'm not fucking worried about you either, so you can put that right outta your head_

Ian laughed in spite of himself, and his father seemed surprised by the sound.

"Is that Lip?" he asked.

"No, it's, um, Mickey."

Clayton gave him a knowing smile, the same one he'd seen on Fiona's face a few hours ago.  "Is he your...boyfriend?" he hedged.

Ian whirled to face him, eyes wide.  How did everyone keep figuring him out?

"Relax, it's fine.  I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to," Clayton assured him.  "Just know that it's okay.  You don't have to hide it."

He turned to walk upstairs, but Ian stopped him halfway up.  "How did you know?" he asked.

Clayton smiled at him again.  "The way he looks at you when you're not looking at him.  And you blush like a schoolboy giving his first oral report every time he touches you."  Something seemed to occur to him then, and he paled considerably.  "You two aren't--you're not, um...you know..."

Ian flushed.  "N-No, we've only ever hugged."

His father gave a relieved sigh.  "Good.  Just, uh, keep it that way, I guess."  He walked up the stairs, the back of his neck and tips of his ears burning bright red.

Ian walked out to the kitchen, composing his reply to Mickey.

"There you are!"

His phone slipped through his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Ned was standing behind the table, in front of a batch of [chocolate chocolate chip cookies](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/chocolate-chocolate-chip-cookies-i/) and a bowl of vanilla ice cream.  "I made your favorite.  Come have some with me."

_Breathe.  Just breathe._

Ian tried to control his shaking hands as he bent to pick up his phone, seeing another message from Mickey waiting for him.   _fuckin answer me, man._

 _Breathe_.

"I missed you, Ginger Snap," Ned said warmly, hugging him from where he stood behind Ian's chair.  Ian felt him sniff his hair and rub lightly at the nape of his neck.  The cloying scent of Ned's cologne wrapped him in a vice, and he could feel himself starting to be suffocated by it.  "Tell me you missed me, too," Ned said softly, rubbing his back.

His throat burned.  "I m-missed you too."

Ned picked up a cookie and brought it to Ian's mouth.  "They're still warm."

He wanted to cry.  The too-tight feeling was back, making his skin itch and his bones ache.  There was something coiling in his chest and clenching in his stomach and ringing in his ears, something making his mouth dry and his hands sweat and his toes cramp.  Everything in him was screaming to run, but he was paralyzed and powerless as Ned smiled congenially down at him.

He felt himself open his mouth to accept the treat.  He hated that it was delicious, that the chocolate chips practically melted on his tongue.

Ned swiped his thumb across his bottom lip.  "You've got some crumbs," he said.

Ian felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.

Ned broke the cookie in half and bit his own before dropping the other into the bowl of ice cream.  He took out a spoonful and presented it to Ian.  "Before it melts."

_Breathe._

Ian opened his mouth again, hating himself for enjoying the way the desserts mixed and the ice cream slid down his throat.

"That's it," Ned said softly.  "Good boy."

His stomach dropped at the praise.  He could feel himself shutting down and closing off, retreating into a small corner of his mind reserved only for escaping their dreaded sleepovers, when his brother walked into the kitchen.  Ian never thought he would be happy to see Malcolm, but here they were.

"Cookies!  Awesome."

Ned stepped away from Ian to stand against the counter, watching the brothers interact.  Malcolm took a cookie from the platter and turned to Ian hesitantly.  "Can I have some of your ice cream?"

Ian swallowed around the ash in his mouth and tried to sound normal.  "You know you'll get sick," he rasped.

"Just a taste?" he begged.  "Mom never lets me have any of it."

"That's because you're lactose intolerant."

Malcolm scowled.  "I know, I just..."

Ian allowed himself the time to feel sorry for his younger brother; he led a very sheltered life and didn't have very many friends, always being smothered by his mother and kept in the house.  "Fine," he relented.  "One spoonful with your cookie.  But don't tell."

His face lit up.  "Thank you!  I won't, I promise I wont."  He took Ian's spoon out of the bowl and held it reverently, eyeing the ice cream on it with awe.  "Mmm," he moaned once it hit his tongue.  "So worth it."

Ian smiled at him.  "Go, before you shit yourself and your mom makes me clean it up."

Malcolm's face burned with embarrassment, and he stalked out of the kitchen before stopping in the entryway.  "Hey, um, about what happened in the store...I'm sorry."

"Sorry because it was wrong or sorry I'm gonna kick your ass?"

"Because it was wrong.  I helped Jane read the first bit of the next book in her series, she said she wants you to finish it with her."

If Jane had forgiven him, then Ian supposed he could too.  "Don't let it happen again, asshat," he warned.

"I promise."

They both knew that was a lie, because it always happened again, but Ian let him scurry off to do whatever it was he had planned for his afternoon before he spent the rest of the night on the toilet.

"What happened at the store?" Ned asked.

Ian gave a sharp intake of breath at the sound of his voice.  "Malcolm was being a dick to Jane, I called him on it, and Lucy slapped me."

"What?  Are you okay?"

"I can take a hit."  He grabbed his bowl and a few cookies.  "I'll finish this upstairs, got a lot of unpacking to do."

He didn't wait for a response, just high-tailed it out of there.

There were two more messages on his phone when he pulled it out; one from Mandy and another from Mickey.

_mickey's trying to play it cool, but i know he's texting you. he's freaking out. you okay?_

_if you don't fucking answer me i'm coming up there and hauling your ass back down here._

He felt himself smile at their concern, taking another bite of his snack and replying to them.

[To:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_that a promise?_

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_sorry, i'm fine.  just had a little run-in with you know who._

They both responded almost immediately, Mickey with a  _"fuck you"_ and Mandy with a concerned  _"everything okay?"_

He knew he wouldn't hear anything else from Mickey for the day, and that Mickey wouldn't be expecting a response, so he settled in to talk to Mandy.

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_he fixed my favorite dessert and then fed it to me. i wanted to vomit on his shoes._

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_gross. was it at least good?_

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_yeah. of course the fucker can bake._

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_i'll be sure to get his recipes before i stab him in the heart_

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_thanks. it'd be a big loss if you didn't_

Their banter died off from there, and Ian contented himself with eating and then unpacking his suitcase.  His father stepped into his room while he was putting his boxers away.  "I just realized that I didn't get anything for your friends," he said.

"It's not even September yet, Dad.  You don't have to worry about Christmas presents."

"Well I just want to make sure I have the chance to shop for everyone.  You know how Lucy can be."

He had to agree with him there.

"Want to head back out to the mall tomorrow for them?  And you need school stuff, too."  He eyed the boxers Ian was in the process of folding.  "Those aren't yours, are they?" he asked.

Ian blushed.  "No, they're, um, Mickey's."

Clayton closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.  "Why is your suitcase full of another boy's underwear?  Wait, nevermind, don't answer that, I don't want to know.  Christ, you're killing me here, Ian."

Ian laughed.  "It's all innocent, I swear."

Clayton grimaced.  "Yeah, well...if that ever changes, just...use protec--oh Jesus, I can't do this.  Don't have sex.  Please?  You're too young."

"How old were you your first time?"

"Seventeen.  You're fifteen."

"I'll be sixteen soon."

"Still too young.  Turn eighteen, then we'll talk."

 Ian rolled his eyes.  "You're being ridiculous."

"No, I'm parenting.  There's a difference," he corrected.  "How old is Mickey, anyway?"

"Seventeen."

"Oh, got yourself an older boy?"

Ian blushed again.  "Shut up."

Clayton laughed, but sobered up quickly.  "Listen, Ian...don't let anything happen if you're not ready for it, okay?  I'm sure Mickey's a great guy, but don't let him pressure you. And don't you pressure him, either."

He felt the familiar burning of emotion in the back of his throat, and he couldn't speak around it.  He nodded his understanding, and Clayton smiled, turning to leave.  Before he crossed the threshold, Ian pulled him into a tight hug.  "Thank you," he whispered.

Clayton seemed surprised by the sudden burst of emotion, but returned the embrace nonetheless.  He kissed Ian above his ear and squeezed him a bit harder.  "I love you."

In that moment, he wanted to tell his father everything.  He wanted to break down and cry in Clayton's arms while he comforted him, wanted to sob out the entire sordid tale, from the very first longing looks and lingering touches.  He wanted to tell him about his nightmares, his anxiety, about Fiona's sleeping pills and hiding the knives.  He wanted to bare his soul and reveal every secret that he'd locked away and buried over the past five years.

But then he remembered Ned's words to him when he was eleven.

_"You know, Ian, your father and I work together at the hospital.  We've known each other for a long time."_

_Ian gulped.  He hated the way Ned's voice floated around his room, like it would seep into the walls and whisper in his ear while he slept._

_"I know things about him.  Things that no one else knows, and if I told someone those things, your Dad could get into a lot of trouble.  He might even go to prison.  You wouldn't want that, would you?"_

_He tried to hold back tears.  "N-No."_

_"Then you have to promise me that this will be our little secret.  Can you do that for me?"_

_"Y-Yes."  He hated himself for giving in so easily, but he'd only just gotten his new father, and he was a good person.  Good people didn't deserve to go to prison._

_Ned smiled at him.  "Good boy."_

So Ian said the only thing he could, the only thing that kept his conscience clear and his father's reputation safe.

"I love you too, Dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the first verse of "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.
> 
> "Hello darkness, my old friend.  
> I've come to talk with you again.  
> Because a vision softly creeping,  
> Left its seeds while I was sleeping.  
> And the vision that was planted in my brain  
> Still remains  
> Within the sound of silence."


	10. Shelter from the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn't what i'd originally planned for this chapter, but it felt right. well wrong, it all felt horribly wrong, but you know what i mean. what i originally planned might be in the next one or the one after, i'm not sure. i'm deviating from my outline pretty badly haha

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_he's being...weird._

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_weird how?_

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_weird like...i'm not sure._

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_are you worried?_

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_i don't know. should i be?_

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_he's your monster, not mine. enjoy your reprieve._

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_maybe i'm too old for him now?_

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_it's possible. could've moved on to your wank stain brother._

[To:  **Mandy** ]

_he's not all bad. and we'd know if he had, malcolm's not one for secrets._

[From:  **Mandy** ]

_just be careful, i guess._

 

Ian had been at Clayton's house for two weeks now, and Ned hadn't made any attempts to sneak into his room.  There were still creepy stares and small touches and secret smiles, but no creaking floorboards in the middle of the night, no stench of cologne on his sheets, no whispers in his ear.  He didn't know what to make of it.  On the one hand, he was relieved; he hadn't slept at all the first three nights, laying awake in anticipation of Ned's arrival and steeling himself for the inevitable.  After the first solid week of no intrusions, he'd begun to sleep soundly through the night and dream normal dreams, dreams full of Mickey and Mandy and Jane and Carl and Debbie.  But now that the second week had passed, he was beginning to get suspicious.  Now he lay awake with dread pooling in the pit of his stomach, an odd sense of foreboding keeping his eyes trained on his doorknob and ears straining to listen for footsteps in the hallway.

The suspense was killing him.  School had barely started and he was already behind; his sleeplessness made him forget things, he nodded off in class, and he wasn't friendly enough with anyone to ask for their notes.

He knew that Ned was planning something.  He had to be.  Everything was always so calculated, right down to their very first interaction.  This had to be some kind of game, a way for him to add to the pleasure, heighten the experience.  Playing with his food before he ate it.  Ned was the cat and Ian was the mouse.  Predator and prey.

He kept his muscles tense, waiting for him to pounce.

* * *

Ian's birthday, September 24th, was on a Wednesday this year.  His party, the one day out of the entire year that Lucy allowed his siblings to visit, was scheduled for the 26th.

He found himself dreading the day.

Lucy spent the entire time belittling his family and giving him condescending pats on the head.  She'd even recruit Malcolm to go around the house hiding what she considered to be the "valuables," in preparation for _those people_ coming to visit.  She always looked down her nose at Carl especially, who could never seem to get truly clean and always had sticky fingers or a patch of dirt on his face.

He could only imagine her reaction to finding the Milkoviches in her house.

Clayton brought it up one morning at breakfast.  "Do your friends need a ride up next weekend?" he asked.

Lucy narrowed her eyes and interjected before Ian could answer.  "What friends?"

"Those kids that were at the house when I picked him up, Mickey and Mandy."

"And why would they need a ride up here next weekend?" her face was tight, and her voice had a sickly sweet simper to it that reminded Ian of Dolores Umbridge.

"For his party," Clayton replied pointedly.  "I know he misses them, and I'm sure they miss him.  Why shouldn't they get invited?"

"You mean the foul-mouthed ruffian with profanity tattooed on his knuckles?  I don't think so."

"Luce--"

"Clayton."

"Lucy, come on."  He leaned forward and spoke to her quietly.  "They're the first friends he's made that aren't related to him.  He needs this."

She set her silverware down by her plate with very deliberate movements.  "I don't want that boy in this house, Clayton.  It's bad enough you let Jane play with that Carl kid."

"Carl's fun!" Jane protested.

Lucy plastered a smile on her face to address her daughter.  "I'm sure he is, sweetheart, but he plays too rough with you.  He's too violent."

"That's _why_ he's fun," she explained.

"Debbie's fun, too," Malcolm chimed in.  "She taught me how to knit last year."

"And Fiona braids my hair!"

"Lip knows science."

"Liam's so cute, Mommy, you know he is."

Ian tuned the rest of the conversation out, instead settling for watching Ned casually observe.  He had an expression of polite interest on his face, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Suddenly a socked foot snaked its way up his shin, making him jump and slosh some of his cereal onto the table.

The four Gallaghers turned to look at him, but Ned kept his face down, focusing on his egg white omelette.

"Please be more careful, Ian," Lucy instructed as she handed him a napkin.

He nodded rapidly, mopping up the mess and trying to control his blush.

Ned's foot was tickling his ankle.   _Breathe._ _  
_

It was sliding up his calf. _Deep breaths._ _  
_

The inside of his knee. _Calm down._

Trying to pry his legs open to get between his thighs.   _Oh God._

"You okay?"

Rubbing back down the outside of his other leg, as if it's trying to soothe him.   _Please stop._

"Ian, are you okay?"

His head snapped to face his father.  "I'm f-fine."   _Breathe._

"You sure?  You look a little green around the gills."  Ned.  Ned was feigning concern while he simultaneously wormed his foot between Ian's knees, drawing circles into the inside of his thighs with his big toe.

He chanced a look at him.

Everyone else's attention was focused on Ian, so Ned took the opportunity to grin wolfishly and wink.

Ian gulped and looked back at his breakfast.  "I'm fine," he answered.

Ned's foot tapped his own twice before retreating.   _Good boy._  Everyone went back to their conversations, no longer worrying.

When everyone finished and scattered throughout the house to get themselves ready, Ian wiped the table down and loaded the dishwasher, trying to center himself for the day ahead of him.

An arm wound around his waist while he stood at the counter.  "You okay, Ginger Snap?  You seem...tense."

He could taste bile in his mouth.  "I'm fine, Ned."

Thumb stroked his hip.  "Are you sure?"  Hot breath in his ear.  "I could loosen you up, if you need me to."

Fingers ran along the waistline of his shorts.  He hated that his dick twitched.  "I'm sure."

Hips pressed against his backside.  "What if I'm the one who's tense, hmm?  Would you loosen me up?"

Erection poking his back.  He knows what he's supposed to say, but he can't.  The words are choking him.

Fingers unbuttoning his shorts.  Fingers undoing his zipper.  "What was that?"

Grabbing him through his underwear.  Tears in his eyes.  "If--If you need me to."

Kissing his neck.  "Good boy."  Light squeeze.

He doubles over and throws up on the floor.

 

"I'm okay, Dad.  Really.  I'm not sick."  It took more effort than it should to grit the words out between his clenched teeth.  His brow was sweaty and he couldn't control the trembling in his hands, but it wasn't because of anything antibiotics could fix.

Clayton was trying to convince him to stay home from school.  "So you just vomited all over the floor for no reason at all?  Ian, you're even shaking now.  And you're all clammy."

He waved the thermometer away.  "I'm fine.  It was probably the milk or something."   _I gotta get out of here._

Clayton gave him a dubious look.  "No one else is throwing up."

"Well then I guess their stomach lining is thicker than mine."   _Please leave me alone._

"You know, any other teenager would be milking this for all they're worth so they didn't have to go to school," he deadpanned.

"Then it's a good thing you lucked out with me.  Education is dedication or whatever."   _Leave now._

He still looked uneasy.  "Promise you'll go to the nurse if you feel nauseous?"

"Sure, yeah.  Definitely."   _Get out._

"Well...okay," he relented.  "Here's your lunch.  And take some ginger ale."

"I'm gonna miss the bus, I'll see you later."

Ian rushed out the door, but he didn't go to his bus stop.

He ran to the train station.

* * *

As soon as he stepped off the L he was running to the Milkovich house.  He knew Mandy was at school, but Mickey played hookie more often than not.   _Please be home._

He pounded on the door frantically, uncaring of whomever else was inside.  After what felt like an eternity, the door opened, revealing Mickey's angry face.  "Gallagher?" he asked in disbelief.  "The fuck are you doing here?"

Ian couldn't contain himself, throwing his arms around him and squeezing.  Mickey hesitated before returning the hug, pressing his hand into Ian's back and ushering him inside.  He pulled away once they crossed the threshold, pushing Ian into his bedroom and ignoring the questioning looks of two other boys, whom Ian assumed were his brothers, sitting in front of the television.

He slammed his door shut, putting a chair under the knob to keep anyone from coming in and steering Ian to his bed.  He held Ian's chin between two fingers and his thumb, watching his face with a hard look in his eyes.  "What happened," he demanded.

Ian gulped.  "I...I n-needed to see you," he said quietly.

"Yeah, I gathered that.  Tell me why."

The words turned to ash in his mouth.  His tongue felt fuzzy.

"Gallagher."  Mickey's voice was tight.

Tears sprung to his eyes and tremors ran through his body.  His skin was itching all over, as if thousands of fire ants had crawled into his bed and gnawed on him in his sleep.

" _Ian._ "  Mickey's hands were on his cheeks, framing his face and staring at him.  "Calm down.  I need you to calm down and tell me why you're here.  Can you do that for me?"

_Breathe._

"Deep breaths, man.  Come on."

_Just breathe._

Mickey's touch warmed his face, the heat burning through his chest and spreading down to his toes.  He gripped Mickey's wrists and felt his heartbeat in his fingertips, willing his own to match it.

"Breathe, Ian.  Just breathe."

Mickey's eyes were boring into his own, hypnotic.  He leaned forward to press their foreheads together, swiping his thumbs across Ian's cheeks gently as he gradually regained control of his faculties, breathing out a sigh of relief as Ian's pulse slowed and breathing evened out.  He wrapped him into another hug, pulling Ian into his chest and stroking his hair.  "You fuckhead," he said quietly.  "Don't ever fucking scare me like that again.  You hear me?"

Ian nodded, mute.

Mickey pulled back to search Ian's face.  There were dark bags under his eyes and his cheeks were sallow.  "Get some sleep, man.  We'll talk later."

He started to walk away, but Ian clutched his wrist in a vice, dead eyes suddenly crazed.  "Don't leave me," he rasped.  "Please don't leave me Mickey,  _please_."

He was powerless against the desperate look on Ian's face, and found himself toeing off his shoes and climbing back into his bed, propped up against the headboard.  Ian latched onto him immediately, burrowing his face in his chest and wrapping his arms around his torso.  Mickey rested one arm on Ian's back, rubbing small circles with his thumb; the other lay on Ian's shoulder, his hand at the nape of his neck, stroking through the hairs there.

Ian drifted to sleep with Mickey's fingers wiping away the feeling of Ned's lips.

* * *

It was dark when he woke up, and he was alone.  There were muffled voices coming from the other side of Mickey's door, and he recognized Mandy's among them.

"We don't know what happened, Mickey said he just showed up here," she said.  She paused for a moment before speaking again.  "I'm not sure, he was asleep when I got home.  You want me to wake him up?"  Another pause.  "Okay, I'll let him know you called."

Mickey was the next to speak.  "He's not going anywhere until he tells me what happened."

Mandy sighed.  "Mickey--"

"No, something happened over there, and I want to know what it fucking was!"

They paused again, and Mickey's answering tone was scathing.  "Well with all due respect  _Clayton_ , I don't give a fuck.  He came here for a reason, and you're not picking him up until I find out what it was."

Ian heard his phone get tossed onto a table or counter with finality.

"You didn't have to be so rude," Mandy chided.

"Well he didn't have to be a shithead," he shot back.

She sighed again.  "Let's just go see if Ian's up, he should eat something.  Did he have any nightmares?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Believe me, you'd know."

Mickey paused to consider her words.  "He was fine," he said quietly.  "He fell right asleep.  He looked...comfortable."

They were silent for a few seconds, and Ian imagined Mandy was smiling at him.  "Let's check on him.  He probably noticed you weren't there."

Is that why he'd woken up?  Because Mickey left the bed when he heard his sister on the phone with Ian's father?  Mickey had laid with him the entire time?

He didn't have much time to ruminate on it; the door opened, and the siblings poked their heads in to look at him.  Mandy smiled at him softly.  "Hey shithead.  How ya feeling?"

He shrugged, not trusting his voice.

"You want anything to eat?  I could make you something."

He shook his head.

"You gotta eat something, man."  Mickey's eyes didn't match his casual stance or his nonchalant tone, and Ian was intrigued by the difference; his eyes were burning, but not an angry flash flickering in the sparse light coming from the hallway.  It was a slow burn, smoldering, building up to an intense flame capable of destroying anything in its path.

It compelled him to change his answer.  "Okay."

Mickey nodded resolutely and stalked out, leaving Ian with Mandy.  They could hear pots and pans banging together, and even though Ian didn't think he could handle much, he knew Mickey would make him eat whatever was put in front of him.

Mandy moved to sit on the bed with him, grabbing his hand.  "What happened?" she asked quietly.

He heard the movement in the kitchen falter, and knew Mickey was straining to hear everything he said.  Mandy seemed to realize this, too, and adopted a look of understanding.  He could read some kind of plea in her eyes, though he didn't know what she was begging him for.  To keep her brother in the dark?  Or to drag him into their darkness?

The decision was made for him as Mickey strolled back into his room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.  His quirked eyebrow and tapping fingers commanded Ian to speak.

"It was nothing," he started, voice scratchy.

Mickey cut him off.  "Bullshit."

"I overreacted," he insisted.

"You don't skip school and run to my house for an overreaction.  You don't show up scared shitless and shaking, you don't spout shit about needing to see me, and you don't fucking beg me not to leave you, so tell me what the fuck happened to you, Ian."

He could see the rage in his eyes, saw it burning him from the inside, and he wanted to say something, anything, to put the fire out.  But then his father, his older sister, and his abuser appeared in the doorway.

Mickey blocked the entryway and Mandy jumped in front of Ian.  He bunched the bottom of her shirt in his fists, a white-knuckle grip that may have torn the fabric.

"I told you you weren't picking him up," Mickey snarled.

"I get that he's important to you, Mickey, but he's my son, and he's been missing all day, so please get the fuck out of my way."

He glared, squaring his shoulders.  "No.  Not until I get some answers."

Fiona ignored their conversation and watched her brother huddle behind Mandy on Mickey's bed, took in how ashen his skin was and the way his body rocked with tremors.  She took a fleeting moment to wonder why Ian had come to the Milkoviches for comfort rather than her, but tossed the thought away.  She watched Mandy's stance in front of him, her entire body planted firmly, one arm wrapped around him and rubbing his back.  The movements were absentminded, though; Mandy's sole focus seemed to be on glaring fiercely at...Ned?

She didn't get much chance to dwell on it before Mickey reluctantly stepped aside, grinding his teeth, the veins in his neck standing out against his pale skin.

Clayton made a beeline for his son, but Mandy didn't budge.  Everyone else's attention was on Ian, but she didn't look away from Ned for a second.  And he never looked away from her.  His smirk made her skin crawl.

"Ian," Clayton began softly.  "Ian, what's wrong?"

He reached out to touch his son's shoulder, but Ian jerked away from it.  "Don't touch me," he whispered brokenly.

Mandy's hand twitched between his shoulder blades.

Clayton retracted his.  "Ian, we need to get you home now, okay?  Everyone's worried about you."

No reaction.

"Ian, why didn't you tell me you wanted to see your friends?  You could have told me, I would've dropped you off after school."

No response.

Fiona stepped in.  "Come on, munchkin, why don't you tell us what's wrong?"

Silence.

"Ginger Snap," Ned's voice lilted from across the room.

His shoulders stiffened.

"We're going home now, okay?  Malcolm and Jane were asking about you."

There was an emphasis on their names that only Ian could hear, that only ian was meant to notice.  He flinched.  Mandy's jaw clenched.

After a few seconds, Ian closed his eyes and stood, resigned.

Mickey's eyes narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut.  Ian didn't look at any of them as he walked out, but he did pause long enough by the door for Ned to place a hand on the back of his neck and whisper into his ear.

"Good boy."

* * *

Mickey didn’t sleep that night, playing the scene of Ian leaving on repeat in his head.

Ian hadn’t let anyone touch him but Mandy.  Ian hadn’t responded to anyone, but when that man who wasn’t there to pick Ian up at the end of August spoke-- _Who the fuck is that guy, anyway?  Why the hell did he come?_ \--he stood up and walked out without saying goodbye.  And his eyes... His eyes had been so frighteningly, hauntingly dead.  The glint Mickey had grown so fond of was gone, snuffed out, extinguished.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

And Mandy knew what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the third verse of "Shelter from the Storm" by Bob Dylan.
> 
> "Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved.  
> Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.  
> Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.  
> 'Come in,' she said,  
> 'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'"


	11. It Feels so Much Lighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this was sort of supposed to be what the last chapter wasn't, but it got away from me again. i kind of like it better this way, though, so i guess it's alright.

Clayton was at a loss.

Friday had been terrifying for him.  He'd gotten a call about Ian's absence from school and called home, thinking that Ian had gotten sick again before he made it to the bus stop. When no one answered, he convinced himself that it was because Ian was resting.  But when he got home and his son was nowhere to be found, he'd started to panic, calling Ian's cell phone every two minutes and leaving barely coherent voicemails.  Thank God for his daughter, because Jane was the one to ask if he'd called Fiona.

_"No, I haven't talked to him today.  Lip hasn't heard from him either.  Did you try Mandy or Mickey?"_

So he called Ian again, hoping against hope that this time he'd get an answer.   _"Um, Clayton?"_ a tentative voice asked.

_"Where is my son?"_

Mandy hesitated on the other line.   _"He's with us."_

A wave of relief the likes of which he'd never felt before washed over him.   _"Is he okay?"_

_"We're, um, not sure."_

_"Not sure?  How can you not be sure?  What's he even doing there?"_

_"We don't know what happened, Mickey said he just showed up here."_

_"When?"_

_"I'm not sure, he was asleep when I got home.  You want me to wake him up?"_

He sighed; he knew Ian hadn't been sleeping very well lately.   _"No, that's fine.  I'll be there to get him in a couple hours, okay?"_

_"Okay.  I'll let him know you called."_

He was about to hang up when another voice, much rougher, came onto the line.   _"He's not going anywhere until he tells me what happened."_

He heard the girl, Mandy, give her brother some reproach.   _"No, something happened over there, and I want to know what it fucking was!"_

_"Look, Mickey, with all due respect, if something happened to him I should be the one he tells about it."_

_"Well with all due respect **Clayton** , I don't give a fuck.  He came here for a reason, and you're not picking him up until I find out what it was."_

Mickey's abrasiveness angered him, and he called Fiona back.   _"You were right, he's with the Milkoviches.  Can you show me where they live?"_

 _"I'll come with you," Ned offered._  He'd been worried about Ian, too.

But ever since they'd brought Ian home from the Milkovich house three days ago he'd been...different.  Scarily different.  He spent an inordinate amount of time in his room, hardly spoke to anyone unless it was to tell them to leave him alone, and practically had to be force fed.  Clayton had even caught him crying himself to sleep one night.

Even Lucy was uncharacteristically concerned for him, which was really a testament to how bad things had gotten.

"Maybe," she said quietly, standing with Clayton in Ian's doorway and watching him sleep, "we should take him to see someone.  A therapist."

"You really think he needs one?"

"Well he's never been...like this before.  Something must've happened."

"You think he told Ned?  They were always so close."

She shrugged.  "He might've.  I'll watch him, you go talk to Ned."

He found Ned in his bedroom, reading a book on child psychology.  "You got a minute?" he asked, knocking on the doorframe.

"Sure, come on in," Ned replied, marking his page.

Clayton sat at the end of his bed, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.  In the comforting presence of his old friend, he was confronted with the gravity of the situation; his son was becoming more and more socially removed by the hour, crying, starving himself.  He was watching the child who hadn't come to him small, but was still his little boy, practically waste away before his eyes.

Ned placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to compose himself.

"I--I just...I just wish he would tell me what was wrong, so I could fix it," he whispered.  "Has he said anything to you?  Have you tried talking to him?"

"I'll see what I can do," he said solemnly.  Clayton rubbed his eyes and sniffed, missing the smirk on Ned's face.

 

* * *

 

Ian stared blankly at the wall his bed was pressed up against, finding cracks and tiny holes that disrupted the white facade, blemishes marring what would otherwise be a smooth surface.

The imperfections made him feel empty.

He smelled him before he heard him; that cologne that always seemed to blanket him in a fog, sharp but with soft edges, strong and light, airy and pungent.  The footsteps were measured, giving Ian the impression that he was being hunted.

Perhaps he was.

The door clicked shut.  Ned leaned against it casually, crossing his arms.  "You know I hate to see you frown, Ginger Snap," he started.  "Why don't you smile for me?"

Ian glared at him.

Ned smiled.  "There, that's something.  Now, you want to tell me what's wrong?  You've got everyone worried, even Lucy."

"Fuck off," he muttered.

Ned seemed genuinely surprised by Ian's belligerence.  "There's no need to be rude, Ginger Snap.  Is this about what I said before?"

**

_Everyone has long since gone to sleep, but Ian lays in bed awake, knowing what's coming for him._

_The door opens.  Ned doesn't try to be stealthy, and walks calmly to Ian's bed, sitting at the edge of it._

_"You didn't have to run, you know," he chided.  "That was very juvenile of you."_

_The semi-stern reprimand would have worked on him two years ago, but now he was getting sick of it.  "You really shouldn't be lecturing me on model behavior."_

_Ned smiled.  "Yeah, I suppose you're right.  Those friends of yours, though--they could probably use a lesson or two, don't you think?"_

_Ian's shoulders stiffened._

_"They seem awfully protective of you.  Especially the boy,"_ _he remarked easily._ _"Certainly was a fire in his eyes, wasn't there?"_

_Silence._

_Ned placed his hand carefully on Ian's calf beneath his blankets.  "I thought we talked about this before, Ian."  The use of his given name sent a chill down his spine.  "You told them our secret, didn't you?"_

_He gulped._

_Ned tsked, rubbing his thumb along the ridges in the blanket and tracing patterns into Ian's skin.  "You know we have rules, Ginger Snap.  You remember what happens when you break the rules, don't you?"_

_Ian remembers being eleven years old and trying to get his father's attention while he argued with his stepmother.  He remembers that they'd been arguing about him again, that Lucy hissed vicious threats about a divorce before storming out and glaring at him with enough venom to pin him to the wall as she walked by.  He remembers his father's slumped shoulders and tired voice as he said, "Not now, Ian."  He remembers Ned around the corner, watching him._

_The next day they'd had to rush Jane to the hospital for an anaphylactic reaction to the peanut oil Ned put in a new recipe.  Her allergy had conveniently slipped his mind, and her EpiPen had mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear when they got home, exactly where it should have been._

_He remembers not speaking to anyone for four days._

_Ned's voice called him back to the present.  "We have rules for a reason, Ginger Snap.  You know there are consequences."_

_Tears leaked out of Ian's eyes.  "Please," he whispered brokenly.  "They didn't do anything wrong, it was me.  You don't have to punish them."_

_A smile that didn't reach his eyes split across his face.  "Oh, Ian, I'm not punishing them.  You know this is all for you."_

**

"You don't have to beat yourself up about it," he laughed.  "I haven't worked out what will happen yet.  I mean, there's a lot that could happen to such a pretty girl, but I'm kind of leaning toward the boy.  What was his name?"

Ian didn't answer.

"Oh, Mickey, that's right.  The quintessential badboy, hm?  I would've thought you had finer tastes, Ginger Snap.  Have I taught you nothing?"  He made a show of ruminating on something before seeming to have an epiphany.  "He's a bit rough around the edges, isn't he?  Short-tempered?  And I bet he has quick hands, too.  He could probably take my watch right off my wrist, and I wouldn't even notice.  Or my wallet, right out of my pocket.  That wouldn't be too good for him, would it?  Stealing from the good doctor?"

"He doesn't know anything, I swear!"

"Ah, he speaks!  You told his sister, though, didn't you?"

"No, I--"

Ned gripped his calf in a vice, fingernails digging in.  "Do not lie to me, Ian."

"Please, you don't have to hurt her,  _please_ \--"

"I'll be the judge of that."  He stood abruptly and walked to the door.  He opened it and turned back toward Ian, eyes hard.  "I hope you've learned your lesson."

Ian let himself break down as Ned's footsteps faded away, guilt and shame and regret overwhelming him.  He grabbed his phone from his nightstand and called Mandy, but received no answer.  "I'm sorry," he sobbed into her voicemail.  "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to, please don't hate me!"

The call eventually disconnected, and his whimpers trailed off as he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

The sound of his phone buzzing in his ear where it lay on his pillow was enough to wake him the next morning.  He didn't check the caller ID, just brought it to his ear and groaned out a groggy, “Hello?”

“What the FUCK Gallagher?!”

Mickey’s shout nearly ruptured his eardrum.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, leaving a message like that?  She thought you fucking killed yourself last night, you piece of shit!”

Ian could hear in Mickey’s frantic cadence that he’d feared the same thing.  “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t fucking tell me you’re sorry, tell me what the fuck is going on with you!”

He sighed.  “Look, can you put Mandy on?”

“No I can’t fucking put Mandy on, you’re gonna talk to me, goddammit!”

“Mickey, please--”

“No, you don’t get to ask me for favors right now, shithead.  Tell me right the fuck now why you fucking ran to _my fucking house_ , cried and snotted all over _my fucking pillow_ , ignored me for _three fucking days_ , and then left that fucking message for my fucking sister!”

Ian pictured Mickey pacing up and down his room, imagined his arms flailing wildly as he tried to control his anger, and couldn't help but laugh at him.  The sound felt foreign in his throat.  “I'll explain later, will you please just let me talk to Mandy?”

He could hear Mickey seething through the phone, and he gritted out a resistant, “Fine, you fucking piece of shit,” before handing his phone to his sister.

“What the hell, Ian?”  Her voice had the same frenetic energy as Mickey’s, and he regretted putting her through it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  “There was...a lot going on.”

“Like?” she prompted, agitated.

He sighed.  “He, um, knows you know.  He’s planning something.  Or maybe he’s not, I don’t know, I just...”  The reality of the situation hit him the same way it had last night, punching him in the throat and stinging his eyes and burning in his gut.  “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” he whimpered.

“No, Ian,” she murmured.  “It’s not because of you, nothing’s because of you, okay?  It’s not your fault.”

“He put my sister in the hospital last time, Mandy!  She was so little, and she couldn’t _breathe_ \--”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Ian.  I can take care of myself.”

He sniffed miserably.  “But I--”

“No,” she said fiercely.  “No buts.  Anything that happens will happen, and it’ll be because of him, not you.  Understand?”

He gulped.  “Y-Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.”  She let out a short gust of air and abruptly changed the topic.  “Now tell me what you want for your birthday, fuckface.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey Milkovich hated Ian Gallagher.  Or at least he’d convinced himself he did.  Because what else could he possibly feel for his sort-of best friend whom he just happened to maybe have a crush on and who also just happened to be a fucking infuriating nutcase?  The feeling that burned through him when he thought of Ian crying in his room could only be hatred, because of course he fucking hated Gallagher and his stupid fucking tears that made Mickey scared for him.  The white hot rage that coursed through his veins when he remembered the dead look in Ian’s eyes as he’d walked out of his room _had_ to be connected to loathing, because he absolutely _despised_ anything and anyone that could make Ian look like that.  Ian’s eyes were...fuck, they were so fucking _green_ and _bright_ and he always looked happy.  He was always giving Mickey that stupid fucking lopsided grin of his and he hated it, hated the way it made his eyes dance or sparkle or whatever you wanted to call it.  But mostly he hated how he sort of didn’t hate it at all.

And of fucking course that had to be the last time he saw him; he couldn’t get Ian’s dead eyes out of his head, couldn’t forget how that slick, smug douchebag who’d been in his room stinking it up with his cologne had been ordering Ian around and Ian _obeying_  like a fucking puppet, could only remember those two words, those two unsettling words that had him staring at the tearstains on his pillow and thinking of the way Ian had clung to him, eyes wide and fearful.

_“Good boy.”_

It sickened him.

He wasn’t stupid.  He didn’t need confirmation from Mandy on what he suspected was going on, despite the fact that her evasive non-answers were as good as.  He only needed to watch her fingers twitch and her lip curl and her knee jitter while she tried to think of something that would get him to back off.  He only needed to remember Ian being terrified of his erection, remember Ian needing to be alone when he got dressed, remember Ian sometimes getting that detached, faraway look in his eyes that always made Mickey want to make him smile.

That stupid fucking smile that he hated and maybe loved at the same time.

After the ill-fated message Ian left on Mandy’s phone, he’d made a point to call Ian every night before he went to sleep.  At first he’d pushed for Ian to tell him, because he couldn’t very well commit first degree murder on a hunch--a fucking 100% sure hunch, but a hunch nonetheless.  But then he figured that Ian had had enough forced on him to last them both a lifetime, so he settled for making him laugh--stupid fucking giddy laugh--and listening to stories about his spitfire sister and whiney brother, trying not to hate himself so much after he hung up and imagined the slimy fuck who’d ushered Ian out of his room slipping into his bed once everyone else had fallen asleep.

The threat inked into his knuckles itched, and he ached to pound it into that douchebag, craved the blood that would stain his hands and ruin his clothes, thirsted for the cries of pain and the crunch of bone.

He would make that motherfucker _beg_.

 

* * *

  

It had all been Clayton’s idea.

As far as Clayton knew, Ian had made something of a turnaround after talking with Ned, and he couldn’t be more grateful; no more crying, no more hiding away, no more wasting.

So he’d decided to celebrate.

“A birthday dinner?” Ian asked dubiously.

“Yeah!  Everyone will still come here like always, but this time we’ll go out to dinner instead of barbecuing.  Your choice, alright?”

He floundered for a bit, considering.  “That could get kind of expensive, Dad.  I don’t think Fiona has that kind of money.”

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning forward to grab Ian’s shoulders and press their foreheads together, “this is for you, okay?  It’s your birthday, and we’re gonna do something nice for you.  You let me worry about all that stuff, alright?”

Ian nodded.  Clayton gave his cheek a soft pat and kissed the top of his head before walking away.

So now his Southside family, Milkoviches and all, was piling into his living room, each with bags of nice clothes for dinner tonight.

The portion of the party that was at his house went as expected; Jane and Carl disappeared almost immediately, and everyone knew that they would turn up in a couple hours covered in something and smiling wickedly; Malcolm and Debbie sat in their own corner of the living room, giving each other the dirt on the various goings-on of both sides of their family; Fiona had Liam and was talking and laughing with Clayton about the time Debbie kidnapped a neighborhood kid and then cashed in on returning him; and Lip stood on the fringe, beer in hand, silently judging everyone around him and making small talk with Mickey while his brother sat on the stairs to quietly talk with Mandy.

“God I hate coming here,” he muttered.  “Makes me itchy.”

Mickey hummed his agreement.  “Feel like I’m about to break out in hives.”

Lip snorted, and they settled into a semi-comfortable silence, watching as Lucy came out of the woodwork every so often to put coasters under everyone’s drinks and keep her upholstery safe from Carl.

Mickey was watching Ned.

He was sipping his wine and talking to Jimmy, casual as fuck, not seeming to know that Mickey was boring holes into his skull with his eyes and wishing he had an actual drill.  Every so often he would scan the room and his gaze would settle on Ian; the smile that played on his lips was always small and secretive, like they were the only ones in on a joke.

Ian never smiled back.

Mickey was forever grateful to his sister for dragging Ian to the top of the stairs when they’d gotten here.  He felt oddly like the bouncer at a club when he’d positioned himself at the bottom, but found that as long as douchecanoe had to walk past him to get anywhere near Ian, he didn’t care.

The craft brew shit these fancy Gallaghers had was going right through him, and he had to piss like a racehorse.  He turned up the stairs to get to Ian.  “Where’s the toilet?”

Mandy seemed annoyed that he’d interrupted them, but he didn’t really care.  “Round the corner to your left.”

“Thanks.  Stay here.”  He felt ridiculous, talking like a parent trying not to lose their child in a crowd.   _Do not go anywhere alone, if I come back and you aren’t here I will flip shit._

Ian smiled softly at him, and he supposed it was okay if Ian was smiling.

“Shithead,” he muttered affectionately, pushing Ian aside lightly.  His grin widened.

When he finished in the bathroom and opened the door, Ned was standing in the hallway waiting for him.  He thought about how Ned would’ve had to walk past Ian too, and probably rubbed his shoulder or something along the way.  He wanted to hit something.

“Mickey, right?”

He snorted.  “Don’t pretend you don’t know my name, Lloyd.”

Ned’s face tightened.  “It’s Ned.”

“It’s either Lloyd or shitstain.  I was trying to be polite.”

He smirked.  “Couldn’t help but notice you glaring at me earlier.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Your powers of observation are mind blowing, Doc, really.  Think you can use them to deduce what’s gonna happen here next?”  There was a tension in his shoulder that he was itching to relieve; he longed to unload it all onto the bastard’s smug face, feel skin split beneath his knuckles and bones snap under the brunt of his attack.

Ned ignored him.  “I also couldn’t help but notice how close you and Ian have gotten.”

“Don’t say his name,” he commanded.

He laughed a bit.  “Fair enough.  He didn’t tell me he had a boyfriend, though, and I’m not really one for sharing my toys.”

Mickey’s jaw clenched hard enough to grind his teeth into dust.

Ned crossed his arms.  “So is this the part where you threaten me not to touch what’s yours or something?”

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that this was a game, shitstain, but I’m not playin’.  And Ian’s not mine, he’s not yours, and he sure as shit isn’t a fucking plaything.  He’s his own, and he fucking said no.”

Ned’s lips twitched.  “I’d think very carefully about what happens next if I were you, Mickey.  Very carefully.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?” he scoffed.

Ned shrugged.  “Either you or your sister; haven’t decided yet.”

“Oh please,” he laughed.  “You think you know my sister?  You don’t know my sister ‘til you’ve fought my sister; she can handle whatever bougie shit you come up with.  You’re the one who’s gonna have to think carefully, Lloyd.”  Mickey crowded him.  “Carefully as in, ‘Do I want to lose the ability to use my fingers--” he grabbed Ned’s right hand and twisted his index finger quickly, satisfied at the crunch and sharp cry of pain “--or do I want to lose my balls?’”  Mickey pulled out his switchblade and stabbed it into the wall between Ned’s legs.  “Don’t think for one second that I’m bluffing either, old man, because trust me, I will not hesitate.”  He took the pinkey of the same hand and broke it between his fingers.  “I could do this all day,” he grinned.

Ned cradled his injured hand to his chest, breathing out in pained gasps, a look of horror spreading onto his face.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen.  You listening?  I’m not gonna repeat myself.”  He took his knife from the wall and held it to Ned’s face, just under his eye, pressing just hard enough for blood to well up.  “You touch him again, I cut off your hand.  You kiss on him again, I cut out your tongue.  You look at him funny again, I gouge out your eyes.  You think about doing any of the above, I castrate you.  Understand?”

He nodded pathetically.

“Good.”  Mickey stepped away from him, and when Ned sagged in relief, he finally let loose like he’d been itching to and punched him in the face, squeezing his throat to bring him down to his height so he could hiss, “And you’re moving out.  Tonight.”  He shoved him back against the wall so that his head rebounded painfully, then let him drop, kicking him in the stomach and groin.

He started to walk away, but turned back and spat on him for good measure.

Ian and Mandy were standing in the mouth of the hallway, watching him.  “Happy birthday, Gingerbread,” he said shortly, grabbing Mandy’s beer from her.  “Your dad’s a doctor, right?  Tell him Grandpa fell and can’t get up.”

Ian didn’t move, staring at Mickey in awe.

“Stop droolin’ and get downstairs, Gallagher.  I ain’t got time for this shit.”

Ian continued to stare in disbelief, eyes shining.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “The fuck did I tell you about crying on me, man?” he snarked.  “Get your ass downstairs."

He launched himself at Mickey, squeezing him and exhaling shaky breaths into his ear.  Mickey pressed his hand into Ian’s back, whispering, “Hey, come on, you’re good, Gallagher.  You’re fine, alright?  Everything’s cool.”

Jane and Carl came running up then, laughing and covered in mud.  “Mom says we’re leaving soon--Ian?  What’s wrong?”

She rubbed a comforting hand along Ian’s side, brow creased in worry.  “He’s fine, baby meat,” Mickey said.  “He’s just happy about the present I got him.”

“A hunting knife?” Carl asked eagerly.

“Why is Uncle Ned on the floor?” Jane cut in.

“Fell,” Mickey replied easily.

She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, but let it go.  “Come on, Carl, we gotta wash up,” she urged, grabbing her cousin’s hand and pulling him into the bathroom with her.

Mickey led Ian and Mandy down the stairs.  “Yo, Ginny, or whatever the fuck your name is,” he barked at Jimmy.  “Might wanna go check on your dad, he took a bit of a spill.”

The adults ventured upstairs to check the damage, gasping out “Oh my God!”s and “What happened?”s at the state he was in.

“Should I tell the police?” Ian asked quietly from where they sat on the couch.

Mickey shrugged.  “You tell the police and you’ll have to tell them all about it, start to finish.  You up for that?”

He thought of the way he’d broken down when he told Mandy and the way he’d handled Kash.  “N-No, I don’t think so.”

Mickey nodded.  “Your choice, Gallagher.  Just make sure you choose right.”

  
The choice, it seemed, was taken out of his hands later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Green Eyes" by Coldplay.
> 
> "The green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to find,  
> And anyone who tried to deny you, must be out of their mind.  
> Because I came here with a load,  
> And it feels so much lighter since I met you.  
> Honey you should know  
> That I could never go on without you,  
> Green eyes, green eyes  
> Oh oh oh oh [x4]."


	12. Can You Show Me Where it Hurts?

Once Jimmy and Clayton had gotten Ned's fingers sorted--clean breaks, with two splints for him to use--the unorthodox family piled into their two vehicles to head to the restaurant.  Travel arrangements were a bit tense at first, for Mickey refused to be separated from Ian; they'd gotten a few looks at their adamance, but Lip attributed it to more weirdness related to the odd way they'd been orienting themselves around each other for the last couple months.

In fact, their strange closeness was even more evident today: after Mickey returned from the bathroom and Ned was discovered in the hallway (he had an inkling that the two events were related, but couldn't determine how), Ian remained firmly sandwiched between the two Milkoviches on the couch.  They seemed to be anchoring him, always touching him in some way or another, whether it was Mandy's hand on his knee or Mickey's thigh pressed against his.  And when Jane and Carl had finally gotten themselves clean and came rushing down the stairs eager to keep playing, running straight to Ian, Mickey seemed reluctant to let him go.  His eyes followed Ian everywhere, always with a small smile playing at his lips.  He scowled when his sister caught him, of course, but his attention always went back to him.  It was like they were drawn together by some invisible tether, something even they couldn't see.

They were so obviously together that Lip berated himself for not noticing sooner.  So when Mickey suggested they stick Carl in the other car and replace him with Ian, he didn't object.  Especially not when Ian smiled like he'd just won the lottery and Mickey blushed and muttered a hasty, "Shut up."

He didn't at all mind the two of them pressing close together when they'd all been seated in the restaurant, didn't hold anything against them for not engaging in any of the several conversations being held, didn't say anything when they borrowed bits of food off of each other's plates.

Neither of them seemed to pay much attention to anything that was happening outside of their bubble until Ned called for the table's attention to make an announcement.

"Clayton, Lucy, as much as I've loved spending the last few years with you--" Mickey's face contorted something awful at that, and it seemed as if Ian and Mandy had to keep him from commenting "--I think it's time I got my own place."

Lip didn't register his uncle's surprise at the news; he was absorbed in Mickey's smug satisfaction, wondering why the expression was flitting across his face.

"Do you have somewhere else lined up?  Were you looking at apartments?" Jimmy asked.

"No, no other place at the moment, but I was just going to check into the Four Seasons tonight."

"Well why don't you just stay until you find something?" Lucy asked, confused.

Ned flushed.  "It'll be easier to look when I'm already on my own.  Judge how much space I really need and all that," he invented quickly.

"You don't need to pay for a hotel to do that.  You could stay with us," his son offered.  He turned to Fiona.  "We've got the couch, or we could put a mattress in the basement--"

Ian's voice was surprisingly clear when he cut Jimmy off.  "No."

Everyone turned to him, confused.  "He can't stay at the house," he elaborated.

Lip caught Mickey putting his hand under the table and saw Ian relax at the contact; why was Mickey comforting him?

And then it all snapped together with shocking clarity.

Ian’s bed-wetting and vomit-inducing erections and catatonia.  Ian’s nightmares and aversion to being touched.  Ian’s questions about Jimmy.

“No fucking way,” he breathed in disbelief.  “No _fucking_ way!”

His shout drew the attention of several patrons surrounding their table, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  “You touched my brother, you perverted piece of shit?”

Everyone at their table froze in shock.  “L-Lip--” Ian stammered, eyes wide and face pale.

Lip barrelled on as if he hadn’t heard him.  “All those years of him pissing himself and throwing up and not talking were because of _you?!_ ”  He stood abruptly, face red and eyes flashing.

Jimmy put his hands up, trying to calm him down.  “Whoa, wait a second, hold on--”

Lip lunged for Ned, shrieking obscenities.  Jimmy grabbed him, and when Clayton stood to help, Lip turned on him.  “Did you know?” he asked, shaking.

“Know _what_?  You’re not making any sense--”

“We trusted you!” he shouted over him, struggling against Jimmy’s hold.  “We gave our brother to you!  You were supposed to take care of him!  Did you know when you took him from us that he--fuck, goddammit!”

He couldn’t say it.  Even with it all staring him in the face, he couldn’t get the words out.

Clayton looked sick, eyes flitting from Lip’s red face to Ian’s pallid one.  “Ian?” he asked slowly.

Practically everyone in the restaurant was watching them intently, some worried, some shocked, a few recording on their cell phones.  The manager seemed to be on the phone with the police, and even she was staring at him.

Their gazes made his skin prickle uncomfortably.  He wanted to run, or scream.  He wanted to lie, so he wouldn’t have to see his father’s face crumble.  He wanted to disappear.

Mandy grabbed his hand.

“Ian, is that true?”

The hand Mickey had placed on his knee earlier squeezed tighter.

“Ian.”  His father was in front of him, wiping tears from his cheeks he hadn’t been aware had fallen.  There was a hitch in his voice that made Ian’s throat close up to hear.

He couldn’t breathe.

The silence ringing in his ears was deafening.  Tears were shining in his father's eyes, and Ian closed his own against the desperate look on Clayton's face.  Fighting the static in his head and the nausea in his stomach, he nodded, burrowing his face in Clayton’s chest and wrapping his arms around him.  He could feel sobs clawing their way out of his throat, could feel the raw burn sizzling through his chest, but he couldn’t hear any of it.  The static was buzzing through his ears, cutting him off from the pandemonium that had ensued at his admission; Jimmy, in his shock, had let go of Lip, who charged Ned like a raging bull.  Mickey, not one to give up an opportunity to beat the man to a pulp, had darted to help Lip.  The police officers, responding to the call placed by the manager when Lip first jumped to attack, stormed in before Fiona, Lucy, and the kids could react beyond dropped jaws, trying to quell the escalating violence.

And all Ian was aware of were his hands desperately clutching at his father’s shirt and the warmth of Mandy’s arms around him.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t know where he was.

He was sitting on a bed, and there were people he’d never met before, people who were giving him sympathetic looks and what they thought were soothing pats on the shoulder.

There was a needle in his arm.

“Ian?”  A woman with long brown hair stood in front of him.  He didn’t respond.  “Ian, my name is Dr. Silverman.  Do you know where you are?”

He stared blankly at the floor.

“You’re at the hospital,” she continued.  “Do you know why?”

_Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe oh God it hurts--_

“You had a panic attack, and a pretty severe one at that.  Can you tell me how long you’ve been having anxiety?”

_Dad make it stop please make it stop it **hurts** \--_

“Ian, I need you to answer me.  Just nod if you can hear me, okay?  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

_Everyone’s watching stop looking at me please--_

The doctor sighed, straightening up and brushing her fingers lightly against his knee.

His response was automatic.  “Don’t touch me.”

She seemed surprised to hear his voice and assumed her former position bent in front of him.  “Ian?  Will you answer some questions for me?”

Silence.

“Your family’s outside, would you like to see them?”

His eyes flickered up to the window at the front of his room, where he could see the anxious faces looking in at him.  He gave a barely perceptible nod, and she waved them in.

He could tell that they wanted to swarm him, but thankfully they kept their distance, keeping a bubble of white linoleum between them.  Mandy stepped forward easily, sitting next to him and grabbing his hand.

Her presence was familiar and comforting, and he found himself relaxing enough to look up from his knees at the worried faces assembled before him.

One was missing.

His breathing picked up slightly.  Mandy noticed his distress and pressed closer to him to whisper in his ear.  “He’s fine, don’t worry.”

He turned to face her, eyes questioning.  “One of the cops was trying to pry you off Clayton and you were screaming, so Mickey hit him.  He’s at the police station, but he’s fine.  It’s okay.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and tried to wet his tongue enough to speak.  “I want to see him,” he rasped.

“Ian, you’ve got to stay here for a bit,” Clayton said gently, voice breaking.  His face was pale and his eyes were red-rimmed.  Lucy had a firm hand on his back and Jane had a hand on his belt, as if they were holding him up, the only things keeping him from collapsing.

Malcolm kept staring, unaware of Debbie’s head on his shoulder and face pressed into his neck.  Lip’s hands were curled around Carl’s shoulders, anchoring himself. Fiona had Liam clutched to her chest as if she’d never let him go, silent tears still trekking down her cheeks.  Jimmy stood on the far wall, apart from everyone else, slightly out of place, hunched in on himself.

“I need to see Mickey,” Ian affirmed.  His voice was still scratchy, and it hurt to talk, but he felt like if he didn’t see Mickey’s face or hear his voice or smell his scent or feel his arms around him in the next ten minutes he would crawl out of his skin.

Clayton turned to Dr. Silverman.  She deliberated for a moment before writing something on a pad of paper and ripping it off, handing it to him.  “Make sure he gets this as soon as possible.”

“Is it safe to discharge him so soon?” Lucy fretted.

“It’s not ideal, but he’s been unresponsive from the start, and this is the first thing he’s asked for.”

Clayton nodded and gulped reflexively.  “Okay.  We’ll, uh, get him this when we pick Mickey up.”

Mandy helped Ian off the bed, still holding his hand.  He appreciated her silence, and everyone else took their cues from her.

His family kept a wide berth as they walked through the halls, but his father seemed unable to keep from touching him; he kept a gentle hand on Ian’s shoulder despite the initial stiffening, and Ian could tell he wouldn’t soon let go.

A fog settled over his mind through the discharge paperwork and the walk through the parking garage, and he could think nothing beyond an endless loop of _They know, they know, they know._  What were they thinking when they sent him those uneasy looks?  Was that sympathy in their eyes, or pity?

There was an unspoken agreement when they got to their respective cars; Lucy got into the driver’s seat of her and Clayton’s sedan, Fiona into the passenger seat--after reluctantly handing Liam over to Lip--and Clayton and Mandy in the back with Ian sandwiched between them.  Everyone else filed into the Gallaghers’ van.

Ian didn’t know how to interpret the looks Jimmy was giving him, but there was a different kind of pain in his eyes than everyone else’s.

There was a lot of hustle and bustle at the station once they got there; arrested men and women struggling with their captors, yelling claims of innocence and pleas for lawyers.  But there was one person’s shouting that seemed to float above all the others’, and Ian found himself drawn to the voice.

He let go of Mandy’s hand and made his way to the holding cells.

Mickey’s yelling was unintelligible at first, but once Ian crossed into the correct hallway he was able to make out, “Where’s my fucking phone call, huh?  I have rights, you Fascist pieces of shit!  Fucking let me call him!”  The last sentence was emphasized by his enraged shaking of the bars in front of him before he gave up and paced, breathing like a rhinoceros.

He stopped dead in his tracks when Ian came into view, and Ian felt his heart leap into his throat at the utter relief on his face.  “Gallagher,” he breathed.  “Get over here, are you okay?”

Ian didn’t realize he was shaking so badly until he reached the outside of the cell.  Mickey’s hands reached out to steady him, and Ian pressed himself into the bars separating them, wanting to be as close as possible.  “Hey, don’t cry,” Mickey said softly, putting his hands on Ian’s cheeks.  “Shh, don’t cry, Ian.  Please don’t cry.”

The tears were leaking out of his eyes in earnest now, and he couldn’t hold back the words clawing their way out of his throat.  “I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to--”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Ian.  Okay?  You didn’t do anything wrong.”  He pulled Ian’s face down to press their foreheads together through the open spaces between the bars, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs.  “You’re good, Gallagher.  Everything’s okay, alright?  You’re okay.  I’m here, I’m right here, and everything’s okay.”

It occurred to Ian that whenever Mandy comforted him, she didn’t say the words, didn’t promise him anything, because she knew it would be a lie.  But he found that when Mickey said them, he believed him; Mickey would make everything okay.

They were unaware of their audience until a cop came to unlock the holding cell.  Mickey wrapped Ian’s trembling body in a tight hug, still whispering assurances into his ear.

“You’re okay.  Everything will be okay.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s fingernails had been reduced to bloody nubs, and Mandy’s hand on his arm did little to comfort him.  He’d been pacing steadily up and down the narrow strip hardwood for the better part of an hour while they waited for Ian and Clayton to finish filing Ian’s official statement against Ned.  The terrified look on Ian’s face when he’d realized he couldn’t take Mickey or Mandy in with him was burned into his eyelids, and he compulsively glanced at the door every six seconds.

The other Gallaghers scattered throughout the room were more subdued than Mickey had ever seen them: Jane and Malcolm were clinging to their mother while she rubbed their backs absently; Debbie was laying across Fiona’s lap and trying to stay awake; Carl was sitting on the floor with Liam, eyes flitting from person to person; and Lip stood against the wall, eyes trained unblinkingly on him and Mandy.

Jimmy had separated himself from the group again, sitting a few chairs down with his head in his hands.

The door Mickey’d been watching flew open, and Ian burst through without looking at any of them.  His skin was tinged green, and he walked swiftly to the bathroom, head down.  Lucy shot up to walk to Clayton, who had to lean against the wall for support, barely composing himself.

Just as Mickey readied himself to follow Ian, he was called back by one of the police officers.  “Milkovich, we need to talk to you.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Not right now.”

The cop’s eyes hardened.  “Yes, now.  You and your sister.”

Before Mickey could protest again, Lip spoke up.  “I’ll go, Mickey.”

He gnawed on his lip, watching Lip trail after Ian and allowing himself to be pulled into the interrogation room by his sister.

The cop who was already in the room smiled congenially at them as they sat down, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I’m Detective Hanson, and this is my partner, Detective Mendler.  You’re Ian’s friends, Mickey and Mandy Milkovich?”

They nodded.

“Well I just want to preface this by saying neither of you is in trouble, so just answer our questions as best you can and you can leave, okay?”

They didn’t respond.

“When did you first become aware of the abuse?” she asked.

“He told me about it over the summer,” Mandy answered.

“Did you think to tell anyone?”

“No,” she replied shortly.  Mickey could tell she wanted to roll her eyes.

“Why not?  Did you realize that by keeping quiet, you’d be prolonging it?”

Mandy narrowed her eyes.  “If Ian wanted to report it, then he would have reported it.  The only reason you know anything is because his brother went postal.”

“Did you encourage him to report it at all?”

“No.  I held him when he cried and I gave him space when he needed it and I comforted him after he had nightmares.  I did what he needed me to do.”

Hanson nodded and made note of Mandy’s answer.  “What about you, Mickey?  When did Ian tell you?”

“He didn’t have to.  Figured it out for myself.”

Mendler raised his eyebrows.  “Really.  How?”

He didn’t want to tell the story, didn’t want to have to talk about Ian’s anxiety surrounding erections or his dead eyes or his stiff shoulders.  “Look, does this really matter?” he asked, agitated.  “Ian’s probably puking his guts out right now and I’m sure you got all you need from him.  Can we go?”

The detectives exchanged glances, and Mendler shrugged.  “We’ll be in touch if we need to question you again,” Hanson said.

The Milkoviches stood to leave, but Mendler stopped them at the door.  “Mickey,” he called, “don’t hit anymore cops.”

“If those cops don’t hurt Ian, then we won’t have a problem.”

He smirked.  “Ian your boyfriend, Mickey?”

His condescending tone set Mickey’s teeth on edge.  “The fuck does that matter?”

He shrugged.  “Just asking.  You already answered, anyway.  You’re free to go.”

Mickey flipped him off as he walked out the door.

 

* * *

 

It was wordlessly established that those who lived on the Southside were not going home that night, and when they got to Clayton’s house, Lucy gathered all the spare blankets in the house to set up a sleeping area in the living room while Malcolm dug through old T-shirts to give his cousins to sleep in.

The silence that had settled over them was unnatural, and Ian longed for it to end.  “Is anyone going to say anything?” he asked quietly.

They stopped arranging pillows to look at him uncertainly, and he felt like an exhibit at the zoo.

“I can’t take this,” he muttered.  “I’m going upstairs.”

No one stopped him, but he did hear Mickey scramble after him.  He changed into his pajamas while Mickey stood in the doorway, facing the hall and pointedly not sneaking glances, and Ian’s stomach fluttered at the gesture.

“I’m done now,” he said softly.

Mickey turned back into the room and went for a drawer in Ian’s dresser.  “Got anything I could borrow?”

“You can just take the stuff that’s yours.  Sorry about stealing.”

Mickey shrugged it off.  “Nah, you can keep ‘em.  I’ll just take...” he rummaged deeper, looking for something to suit his tastes.  “This one,” he announced, pulling out a Nirvana T-shirt.  “I was always into Metallica myself.”

Ian grinned.  “I know, I have that one.”

Mickey smiled back.  “You little shit.  I was wondering where that went.”

They drifted into an easy silence, much less charged than the one downstairs, before Mickey dropped the pillow he’d brought upstairs onto the floor and laid his blanket out.

Ian snorted.  “You’re not my guard dog, Mickey, you don’t have to sleep down there.”

“Fuck you,” he said, blushing.  “I just...didn’t want to push, you know?”

A lump formed in Ian’s throat.  “Thanks,” he said quietly.  “But I’d kind of, um, rather you were up here.”

Mickey’s blue eyes probed his green ones for any hints of uncertainty.  “You sure?”

He nodded, twiddling his thumbs and biting his lip.

Mickey stood and Ian moved over, making room for his pillow.  “Your bed’s fucking small, dude,” he remarked as he laid on his back, arm brushing against Ian’s.

“You complaining?” Ian asked as he hooked an ankle around Mickey’s and tugged his leg closer.

Mickey grinned.  “Nope.”

Ian smiled back.  “Good.”  He turned off the light and settled back down beside Mickey.

A comfortable silence descended upon them as they stared up at the ceiling, and Mickey was almost asleep before Ian broke it.  “How did you know?” he whispered.

Mickey hesitated before answering.  “Your eyes,” he whispered back.  “Your eyes gave you away.”

They were quiet again for a few moments before Mickey interrupted with his own question.  “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

Ian was silent for so long Mickey thought he’d fallen asleep.  “I tried to, a couple times.  He always hurt or threatened someone.”

Mickey nodded.  “He ever beat you?”

“No, just...just the other stuff.”

They didn’t speak again for twenty more minutes.  “Hey, Mick?  You still awake?”

Mickey groaned.  “Christ, Gallagher, I was this close.”

Ian laughed.

“Fucking what, man?  God you’re annoying.”

“You love it,” he teased.  “Do you think you could, um, teach me how to fight?”

Mickey opened a bleary eye and focused it on him.  “Why?”

He gulped.  “I don’t want to be weak.  And I don’t want to rely on you to fight my battles for me.”

“First of all, you’re not weak, tough guy.  You’re the strongest motherfucker out there.  And second of all, I don’t plan on fighting your battles for you.  Eliminating your enemies before they become a bigger problem is tactical, Gallagher.  You bring me names, I bring you heads.”

Ian rolled his eyes.  “They’re not your hypothetical enemies, though.  They’re mine.”

“That’s the same fucking thing, Ian.”

Ian’s heart fluttered at the statement, a wide smile splitting his face.  “Stop,” Mickey commanded.

“Stop what?”

“Fucking thinking, man.  You’re always thinking about shit.”  He paused.  “When you wanna start?”

“Uh, tomorrow, I guess?”

Mickey nodded and Ian turned on his side to hug him.  “Thank you,” he breathed.

Mickey brought his hand up to squeeze Ian’s wrist in response.

Ian didn’t let go, and Mickey found himself enjoying the feeling of Ian’s arms around him.  He fell asleep with Ian still wrapped around him like he was a teddy bear, smiling into his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the third verse of "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd.
> 
> "Relax,  
> I'll need some information first.  
> Just the basic facts.  
> Can you show me where it hurts?"


	13. That's When I Need My Father's Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started publishing updates on Tumblr as well as here, so you can follow me or track the "ginger snap update" tag if you want. oh and you can send me prompts in my ask box if you're interested :) i'm [golden-gardenias](http://golden-gardenias.tumblr.com/), and i'll try my hand at filling them in my spare time XD

Mickey didn't know why he was awake until he heard the floorboards creak again.  He stiffened in Ian's arms and heard whoever was in the hallway shift their weight again before going for the knob and slowly opening the door.  He fingered the switchblade in his pocket, ready to use it if necessary.

The figure shut the door and leaned against it.  Mickey couldn't make out who it was, but kept his eyes trained on it, slipping his knife out inch by inch.

When the shadow approached Ian's bed, he pounced, shooting up and pressing the blade to the man's throat while he backed him against Ian's desk.  "Hey, whoa, calm down!  It's me, Mickey, it's just me!"  The raised voice woke Ian, who accidentally knocked his lamp over in his frantic move to turn it on.  The commotion of the lamp falling drew everyone else upstairs, Jane and Carl wielding hastily grabbed makeshift weapons.  Lucy turned on the hall light, revealing that the man Mickey'd been ready to slice was Clayton.

"Fucking hell, Gallagher, the fuck is wrong with you?" he bit out as he released his hold on him.

Clayton rubbed his throat, thumbing a small cut before speaking.  "I was checking on Ian.  I thought you were asleep."

"I was, til I heard you come in."  He turned to look at Ian, still wide-eyed after having been startled awake.  "You good, Freckles?"

He gulped and nodded shakily.  "I'm fine."

Mickey turned back to Clayton.  "See, he's fine.  You can go back to bed now."

Ian took in Clayton's barely concealed desperation and walked over to him tentatively.  Tears were shining in his eyes, and his hands twitched at his sides.  Ian opened his arms in invitation, and Clayton immediately accepted, wrapping him in a tight embrace.  "I'm okay, Dad," he whispered.

Clayton scoffed.  "Well I'm not," he said tearfully.

Fiona ushered the younger children out of the hallway.  "Come on, monkeys.  He's fine, he's just gotta talk to Clayton right now," she said quietly.  Mandy and Lip stayed behind, watching from the doorway.  "Lip," Fiona called.  "Not now."  He left reluctantly, eyes still probing his brother and uncle.  Ian felt as though he were dissecting him.

Mandy closed the door before she walked away, and Ian caught a glimpse of a pillow and blanket that had been laid out on the floor.  "Did you sleep outside my door?" he asked.

Clayton smiled wanly.  "Not much sleeping happening.  It was mostly staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how...how I could've let this happen."  His voice shook, and Ian could tell he was close to losing it.  "I'm _so_ sorry, Ian.  I--I'm just..." he sat on his son's bed and put his head in his hands, exhaling loudly.  "How can you ever forgive me?" he whispered, shoulders shaking.

Mickey chewed his lip nervously.  "I'll just, uh, wait outside," he muttered.

Once the door closed, Ian sat beside his father and waited for him to calm down.  Clayton sniffed and dragged a hand down his face, staring at the wall and trying to sort the mess in his head.  "Ian, you know I love you, right?" he asked, almost desperately.

Ian frowned; that wasn't the direction he'd expected this to go in.  "Yeah, I guess."

"I never would've let  _anything_  happen to you.  You know that, you  _have_ to know that."

He was getting choked up again, and his eyes were becoming crazed.  "I know, Dad.  I know."

Ian couldn't help but pity his father at that moment, imagining the intense range of emotions battling inside him: Rage for the fact that his son had been abused.  A deep sense of inadequacy for the fact that he hadn't noticed anything.  Betrayal for the fact that the man who hurt him was a trusted friend.  Hurt for the fact that his son hadn't trusted him enough to tell him.  And an overwhelming amount of guilt for giving Ned the opportunity.

He put a tentative hand on Clayton's shoulder.  "It's not your fault," he said quietly.

Clayton scoffed.  "Yeah, sure.  I'm only the one who let him into our  _home_.  I'm only the one who encouraged him to  _stay_.  You know I actually thought it was nice that the two of you were so close in the beginning?  You and Malcolm weren't getting along, and Jane was so young...you weren't talking to me, and Lucy wouldn't talk to you, and I thought it was a good thing that he took an interest.  Kept thinking that maybe he'd help you get used to being here, or help you make friends.  God, I'm so  _stupid_."

Ian was at a loss.  He had no idea how to comfort his father, or if he even wanted to be comforted.

"What did I do to make you think you couldn't tell me?" he continued, agonized.  "Did I do something that made you think I would take his side or something?  You can always tell me if someone's hurting you, Ian,  _always_."

"No, Dad, it wasn't like that.  I wanted to tell you, it's just--" he cut himself off.

"Just what?  Talk to me, Ian,  _please_."

He hesitated before answering.  "He said that if I told you, he would get you sent to prison."

"What?" Clayton asked, bewildered.  "What for?"

"I don't know.  He said that he worked with you for a long time, and that he knew things.  He knew you did something that could get you in trouble."

Clayton was genuinely confused.  "I never--oh.   _Oh_.  That fucking  _bastard_."

"What is it?"

He sighed.  "There was a...malpractice suit.  Must have been...ten years ago, maybe.  It was settled out of court, he couldn't have done  _anything_ with that."

Ian's mouth went dry.  "You mean...he was lying?"  Clayton watched the realization cross his son's face with stones in his gut.  "That whole time--that whole time, I thought..."

He put a hand on Ian's shoulder, searching for something to say to comfort him, but Ian continued before he could settle on anything.  "I thought I was protecting you, and he was lying," he laughed.  "I've been telling myself for five years that I had to do it to help you, and he...he was lying."  The laughter came easily, rolling off his tongue in choked-off sounds that sounded like a tortured animal.

Clayton watched in growing horror as Ian's laughter became increasingly hysterical before transforming into despondent wails.  "He couldn't have done anything to you," he sobbed.  "He was lying the whole time!"

He wrapped his arms around his bawling son, unable to reign in the urge to comfort him.  Ian didn't pull away from him, instead turning his face into his father's chest and gripping his T-shirt tightly.

 

* * *

 

Mickey stood idly in the hallway, trying to shake off the lingering tension from his earlier confrontation.  He knew it was still well before sunrise, but he also knew that he wouldn't be going back to sleep; he was too wired, and there was too much going on in his head.  Thoughts of Ian, thoughts of the fact that he'd been ready to stab someone for him, thoughts of what that cop had said.

_"Is Ian your boyfriend?"_

Fuck, what even made people boyfriends, anyway?  Mandy's boyfriends were always in and out, and those relationships seemed to be defined purely by them wanting to get into her pants.  He'd never had any boyfriends, barely even had sexual partners.  And it's not like he was looking for one.

But Ian, though...Ian was different.

Seeing Ian cry made him want to punch things.  Ian being terrified of something made him want to comfort him.  Watching Ian's hands shake made him want to hold them.  Listening to Ian breathe shallowly through his panic made him want to embrace him and rub his back.  Knowing that Ian's father had been prepared to sleep on the floor outside of Ian's door made him weirdly happy.  Thinking about Ian going to school on Monday, a school full of teachers and administrators he didn't know and who may be able to sense the trauma on him like Kash had, made him nervous.

He wasn't sure if that should scare him or not.

He'd actually been ready to _kill_ someone tonight; he wouldn't have hesitated, would've plunged that knife in deep if the light hadn't been turned on.  And he wouldn't have felt guilty about it.  Not for a second.  He would've pulled the blade out and watched the blood gush and been satisfied.  He would've turned back to look at Ian sleeping, at the peaceful look on his face, and been justified.

He would kill for Ian Gallagher, and Ian Gallagher trusted him enough to wear his boxers and run to him for help and sleep in the same bed with him.

He supposed that trust, more than anything, was what cemented whatever pull he'd felt toward Ian that first time they'd hung out in the Milkovich living room.  And boyfriends trusted each other.

The stairs creaking jolted him from his ruminations, and he whipped his blade out automatically.

"You his bodyguard now?" Lip drawled, leaning against the wall opposite Mickey.

"That a problem?" he asked, quirking his eyebrows.

"Nope.  It's kinda cute, actually."

"Fuck off," he said, scowling.

"Aren't you a charmer."

"Did you come up here just to piss me off?  The fuck do you want?"

Lip pulled out a carton of cigarettes.  "I want to know," he started, lighting up, "why my little brother thought it more appropriate to divulge such pressing details of his life with two people he met in July instead of talking to the people who've known him for his entire life."

Mickey snorted.  "I can't tell if you're upset that he got molested or if you're butt-hurt he didn't tell you."

Lip's eyes narrowed.  "Fuck you, Milkovich.  Of course I'm fucking upset, I've been wondering for years what was going on with him."

"And yet it only took me a couple days.  Someone who only met him in July, who can't possibly know him as well as you do, right?"

He didn't respond.

"Get the fuck over yourself," Mickey snarled.  "He didn't tell you because he didn't want you to know; he didn't tell me because he didn't want me to know; and he told Mandy because he wanted her to know.  That's really all there is to it."

"But why?" he pressed.

"Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.  What's one thing Ian would never do?"

Lip's jaw clenched and he paused for a moment.  "Let someone hurt someone he cares about."

"Exactly.  Fuckers like shitstain are manipulators; get people so twisted up they think it'll fucking rain hellfire if they don't listen."

Lip nodded.  "How do you know all this?"

Mickey shrugged.  "Dad did it to my mom a couple times.  And i did some reading after I started putting shit together."

"Wow, I didn't know you could read.  Let alone do research."

"Fuck you," he glared.  "It was important."

He grabbed the cigarettes out of Lip's hand and lit himself one, allowing the first drag to roll through him and loosen the tension that'd coiled in his shoulders.  The door opened and Clayton emerged, looking haggard.  His eyes lit up at the cigarettes.  "Can I have one?" he asked.

Mickey presented the carton and handed him the lighter.  "Mmm," he moaned, closing his eyes and leaning next to Mickey against the wall.  "Lucy made me quit when she got pregnant with Malcolm," he explained.  "It's been way too long."

"How's he?" Mickey asked, jerking his head in the direction of Ian's bed.

Clayton took another drag and sighed.  "Cried himself to sleep," he murmured.  "Fuck.  He's exhausted."

Mickey looked through where the door had been left ajar and watched Ian toss around.  "You can't leave him alone," he scolded.  "He's gonna have nightmares."

He stubbed his cigarette out on the wall, uncaring of the singe marks, and went to join Ian in bed.  There was a crease between his eyebrows that Mickey wanted to smooth away with his finger.  Ian whimpered as Mickey stood over him, reaching a hand out.  He grabbed it and lowered himself under the covers, trying not to smile at the fact that Ian's face relaxed immediately and that he curled himself around Mickey's body.

Mickey didn't fall asleep for a while, but he never let go of Ian's hand.

 

* * *

 

Ian woke up more well-rested than he'd been in a long time.  Sunlight was streaming through his window and landing across Mickey's face, giving him a soft, golden halo of sorts on his pillow.  He'd never seen Mickey be so still or tranquil before, and the effect was dazzling; he ran his fingertips lightly over his eyebrows, skimming his nose and just barely palming his cheek.  Just as he'd started to run his fingers through his hair, Mickey turned over and opened a bleary eye.  "The fuck you messin' with me for, Gallagher?" he grumbled sleepily.

Ian shrugged.  "No reason.  Just think you're pretty, is all."

Mickey glared at him.  "I'm not fuckin'  _pretty_ , Gingerbread.  If anything, I'm ruggedly handsome."

Ian snorted.  "Nah, I don't see it.  You're just pretty.  Look at you, you're blushing!"

"Fuck you, I am not," he said harshly, dragging the covers over his head.

"Yeah you are!  Look at those rosy cheeks!"

"Stop poking my cheeks, you freak."

Ian, of course, ignored him, and continued smushing Mickey's face with his fingers.  "Look at this face.  You've got such a pretty face, Mick.  Who could say no to this face?"

"You've been saying no to it this whole time!  Get off me, I'm not a fuckin' puppy."

"You're right, you're not a puppy," Ian agreed.  "You're a cute little kitten," he said instead, running his fingers through Mickey's hair again.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  "You're such a fucking child, Jesus.  Will you stop being ridiculous?"

"Stop making me happy and maybe I'll stop being ridiculous," Ian teased.

His words gave Mickey pause.

Ian was happy.  He'd cried himself to sleep the night before, but now he was happy.  They were laying in the same bed he'd been hurt in, but now he was smiling one of his wide dopey grins and laughing that fucking giddy laugh because he'd woken up in it with Mickey.

He felt his chest swell, and couldn't bring himself to think of a scathing retort.  Ian took his silence for submission, and began tickling him.  "Fuck, Jesus, stop it! Goddammit!"

"Say it," he commanded, digging his fingers into Mickey's sides.

"I'm not--fuck," he said, squirming.  "I'm not sayin' shit, man."

Ian straddled him and moved his hands lower, to Mickey's more sensitive spots, before leaning in slightly.  "Say it or I'll--"  He broke off, as if suddenly noticing the position they were in.

Or maybe he just felt Mickey's erection pressing into his thigh.

Jesus Christ this was mortifying.  He was in the final circle of hell, he had to be.  Or he was still asleep, because the growing alarm evident on Ian's face could only be produced in a nightmare.

Ian was frozen above him, staring him down with a conflicted expression, and he wanted to apologize, but his mouth was dry.  Before he could work his tongue around the words, Ian was sliding off of him, a guarded look on his face.  "I--um.  I can't.  Sorry," he muttered, pointedly looking away from Mickey's lap.

"The fuck you apologizin' for?  It's not your fault."

Ian's cheeks were beet red as he struggled for the words to express his turmoil.  "I...we can't really do any of that stuff.  And I know you want to."

"Yeah, so?"

He gulped.  "I...I don't want you to get bored waiting."

"Why the fuck would I be bored?" Mickey asked, bewildered.  "You've always got something going on, Gallagher."

"But I--"

"No."  Mickey could tell Ian was getting frustrated, and he cut him off.  "No buts.  I'm not gonna get bored because you can't suck my dick, Ian.  You don't have to do that stuff to keep me comin' around.  My only other options are sitting in my living room with Mandy watching  _Boy Meets World_ reruns or getting high with my brothers, and that's just pathetic."

Ian snorted.  "So you'll hop a train and do it in my living room instead?  What's the difference?"

Mickey narrowed his eyes.  "You know.  You're not gonna get me to say it, asswipe."

Ian laughed, the tension fading from his shoulders.

"You ready to stop being stupid now?  I smell bacon."

Ian wasn't eager to face his family, and Mickey could sense his nervousness as they prepared to leave.  "Stop it.  Those shitheads love you.  Go downstairs and eat."

He smiled.  "Thanks, Mick."

"Yeah yeah, whatever.  I'm fucking starving."

They came down the stairs smiling, and everyone froze, staring at them.  Ian felt vaguely as if he was on display, and resisted the urge to grab Mickey's hand.

Fiona looked around at everyone else and saw that no one else was going to attempt to alleviate the awkwardness.  "It's about time you got up," she said, smiling. "Sleep okay?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Good.  Have some waffles."

They sat at the table and tried to avoid eye contact with the people who were still watching them.  Mandy seemed to be the only one unaffected by the atmosphere. "Hey, douchebag."  Mickey looked up from his plate at her.  "Turn your fucking phone on; Linda called me to chew us out for not showing up today.  Said she had to open the store by herself."

Lucy made a face at the expletive, but didn't say anything against it.

"Shit, I forgot all about that.  What'd you tell her?"

"That Ian had an emergency.  All's forgiven when we name-drop, it seems."

"That's because I'm her favorite," Ian pointed out.

"Why the hell are you her favorite?  We're the ones busting our asses over there."

"Because I'm the only employee who never stole from her, Mick."

"I never stole from her," Mandy said.

"You still benefited from it.  Mickey shared the food with you."

"Whatever," she dismissed.  "You'd still be her little angel, even if you did."

"Well I am a saint," he said, batting his eyelashes at her.

She snorted.  "I'd rather be sinful than saintly any day.  It's a lot more fun."

"Yeah, but it gets you into a lot more trouble."

"That's what I said."

The three friends laughed, trying to ignore the awkwardness that had settled around other people at the table.  None of the Gallaghers seemed to know how to act, and Jimmy was strangely silent.

"Did you and Ian sleep together last night?" Jane asked suddenly.

Mickey eyed her cautiously.  "...Yeah.  What of it?"

"Did you have sex?"

He choked on his orange juice, and Ian had to thump him on the back.  "What the fuck?" he wheezed.

"When people on TV sleep together, they have sex," she said simply.

"The fuck shows are you watchin'?  Aren't you like, five or something?"

"I'll be nine in October," she corrected, affronted.

"How do you even know about sex?" Malcolm asked.

"Carl told me about it."

"How the hell does Carl know about sex?" Ian asked.

"Could we please stop talking about sex?  They aren't even ten yet!" Lucy exclaimed.  "They shouldn't know about those things, they're entirely too young."  Her eyes flashed briefly to her stepson as she said this, and her face closed off.  "Nevermind," she said quietly.  "I think I'll just take my plate upstairs."

"Not allowed to eat upstairs!" Jane rebuked around her mouthful of food.  Clayton shot her a stern look, and she went back to her plate.

Silence descended upon them once again before Carl broke it.  "So are you guys, like, gay?"

"Jesus Christ."

 

* * *

 

The day progressed smoothly, and Ian and Mickey spent their afternoon in the backyard, learning defensive techniques.  Jane, Carl, and Debbie eventually gravitated toward the lesson, so Mandy came in to teach with her brother.  Lip watched from the deck, sipping a beer.  They'd finished going over the first rule, never fight fair, pretty quickly, and were now on rule two: always go for the nuts.  Jane seemed to be a master, and got a bit too much enjoyment out of sparring with Carl.

"How the hell'd you get to be such a scrapper?" Mickey asked, awed by Carl's writhing on the ground.

She shrugged.  "I watch a lot of _Supernatural_."

He frowned.  "Shouldn't you be watching Disney or some shit?"

"Puh-lease," she scoffed, offended.  "The only one who taught me anything worth knowing was Mulan, and there's never gonna be another one like her."

"What about Merida?" Debbie asked.  "From  _Brave_?  She's kinda like Mulan."

"If she's not saving China, I'm not interested," Jane said shortly.

"But--"

"Debs, you really don't want to wind her up about Mulan," Ian warned.  "She can go on for hours."

"Why are we not singing 'Make a Man out of You' right now?" Jane asked abruptly.

"Because it's not gonna happen," Mickey retorted.

" _Let's get down to business, to defeat the huns,_ " she sang.

"No," Mickey moaned.

" _Why'd they send me daughters_ ," she punched Mickey in the stomach, " _when I asked for sons?_ "

"Fuck off," he said, pushing her away.

" _You're the saddest bunch I ever met, and you haven't got a clue_."

"You're not even fucking singing it right!"

"Ha!  So you know the words!"

Mickey floundered.  "What--No, I didn't say that!"

"Bet you had a  _huge_ crush on Chang.  Ian did."

"Jane, Jesus!" Ian berated, blushing.

"Don't act like you didn't rewind parts just so you could watch him fight and drool over him."

He was spared further embarrassment by Jimmy calling his name.  He turned to walk into the house when Mickey's hand on his arm stopped him.  "Ten minutes," he said.  Ian nodded and headed inside.

Ian and Jimmy were alone in the kitchen, and they spent the first few moments staring at each other.  Jimmy broke the silence.  "I had this friend," he started, "when I was eleven or twelve.  Travis.  He slept over my house once, and then he never wanted to come back.  I guess now I know why."  He paused to look at Ian.  "He had red hair too."

Ian swallowed reflexively.  "Has he called you?" he asked.

"A couple times.  My brother Chip is probably with him now."  He sighed.  "I know this doesn't change anything, and it probably means less than nothing to you, but I'm sorry.  Truly, truly sorry."

"What for?  You didn't do anything."

"It's not a guilty sorry, it's a 'sorry your dog died' sorry."

They lapsed into silence.  "Did he ever do anything to you?" Ian asked.

Jimmy shook his head.  "No.  Just my redheaded friends, it seems.  Always asked when Travis was coming back."

"You ever do anything to my sister?"

Jimmy seemed confused.  "Well we've been together for--oh _eww_.  No, dude, I would  _never_.  That's disgusting, she's a little kid!"

Ian shrugged.  "Gotta make sure.  We done here?"

He still seemed shaken by Ian's implication.  "Yeah, yeah, we're done.  Go learn how to kill people or whatever you guys are doing out there."

He turned to leave, but Ian stopped him.  "Be good for Fiona, Jimmy.  She deserves that."

"I know.  She deserves everything."

Ian let him walk away after that.

When he returned outside, Mickey was watching the door.  "Everything good?" he asked.

"Fine," he said shortly.  "Teach me how to kill things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the second chorus of "My Father's Eyes" by Eric Clapton.
> 
> "Where do I find the words to say?  
> How do I teach him?  
> What do we play?  
> Bit by bit, I've realized  
> That's when I need them,  
> That's when I need my father's eyes.  
> My father's eyes.  
> That's when I need my father's eyes.  
> My father's eyes."


	14. Please Teach me Gently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the abnormally long wait for this chapter, there was a lot going on in my head. i'm an idiot, and had the summer chapters set in the season 2 summer, but didn't give any indications of that (such as grammy gallagher's presence), and if she's not there to die, then there's no reason for frank to go to monica for comfort and bring her back (yes, spoiler, monica will be making appearances), and i was like 70% ready to rewrite EVERYTHING to include frank and his mother, but thankfully talked myself out of that before i could rip too much of my hair out. so, for the sake of my sanity, i'm hereby establishing that the reason frank wasn't at the gallagher house during the summer was that he was living with sheila. and monica will give her reason for turning up when she turns up, i guess.
> 
> oh, and to distract myself from my idiocy, i responded to a prompt and started a whole new series of stuff. why i chose now to do it, when i've got two other WIPs besides this one that i've been neglecting as well as a crossover i want to write, i have no idea.
> 
> aaaaand this note's getting pretty long, so i'll just go now. hope everyone enjoys! :)

The house felt too empty after everyone had returned to their Southside homes, and Clayton found himself wandering the halls restlessly, listening to the quiet.  Most of his time was spent pacing the hall outside of Ian's room, pressing his ear against the door.  Part of him wanted to open the door and watch Ian sleep, just to be sure, but his hand would touch the knob and a wave of nausea would pass over him, remembering all the things Ian had told the police would happen once his door creaked open in the middle of the night.  More often than not, his wife would find him curled up on the floor in front of his oldest son's room when she woke up to get ready for work.  She would place a gentle hand on his shoulder and look at him with sympathetic eyes that simultaneously broke his heart and put it back together.

He didn't know what he would do without her.

She'd been unexpectedly gracious about the whole thing, understanding his need to be near his son as much as possible and not complaining when she woke to find him shifting uncomfortably in bed or to find his side empty.  She watched Ian when he couldn't without him having to ask her to and sent him text updates a few times a day, as if she could sense when he was beginning to feel distressed at work.  She managed to work seamlessly as the bridge between the normalcy that Ian seemed to crave and the abnormality of Clayton's actions; she still admonished him, but her eyes were soft and her smile sweet, no longer an edge to her voice.  Her subtle kindness seemed to leave Ian perturbed, but Clayton was beyond grateful.

Jane was the only one who appeared unruffled by the drama of that weekend.  She still asked Ian to help her read before she went to sleep and made him watch movies with her, still sassed her parents and teased Malcolm.  But she was careful not to mention Uncle Ned to anyone and didn't ask questions about what everyone else was upset about; she didn't ask why her cousin had attacked him, didn't ask why Ian screamed and cried and had to go to the hospital, didn't ask why Ian was talking to the police, didn't ask why Uncle Ned hadn't come home with them.  She knew that he'd done something to her brother, but had no idea what "molested" meant and felt uncomfortable asking for clarification.  So she contented herself with pretending nothing was wrong, but that somehow didn't feel right, either.

Her father caught her in Ned's room on Wednesday before dinner.

"What are you doing in here?" he barked.

She whirled around, surprised.  "I was just--"

"Don't come in here.  Understand?  Don't ever come in here again."

His hands were shaking by his side and his eyes darted around the room with a frenzied desperation she'd never seen before.  "Daddy--"

He lunged forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the room and slamming the door behind her.  "I mean it, Jane.  Do not  _ever_  go in there."

The dangerous tone of his voice was unfamiliar to her, but then she heard Ian behind him.  "Dad," he said.  There was something quiet and sure about the way he carried himself that she didn't know how to interpret.  "Dad, let go of her arm."

Clayton suddenly became aware of the fact that he still had a tight grip on her and let go immediately, anger draining out of him.  She darted to Ian's side and he put a hand on her shoulder, keeping his eyes on their father.  "Everything okay?" he asked.

Clayton nodded numbly.  "I'm sorry, Jane.  I don't know what came over me."

She didn't understand why Ian was so tense, keeping her behind him with a gentle pressure.  "It's okay," she said quietly.  She just wanted to go downstairs and eat.

"Don't let it happen again," Ian said.  There was a hint of warning in his voice, and Clayton nodded again.

"You guys go down and eat, I'll be there in a minute," he murmured, ducking into the bathroom.

Ian turned to Jane.  "Let me see your arm."

She rolled up her sleeve and showed him the faint finger-shaped bruises that would probably fade by the end of the day.  His jaw clenched.

"Ian?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, munchkin?"  He rubbed the injured skin lightly with his thumb.

"What Uncle Ned did...was it bad?"

He froze, looking up into her wide, earnest eyes.  "Yeah.  Yeah, it was pretty bad."

She nodded.  "What does 'molested' mean?"

He winced, but pushed through his discomfort.  "Molested is when someone touches you when you don't want them to."

"Like pushing?"

"No, like...in your, um, private parts."  His cheeks flamed red.

"Oh.  Okay."

"Jane?"  He crouched down to her level to look her in the eye.  "If someone ever does that to you, I want you to tell me.  Or Dad, or your mom, or even Malcolm or Carl, okay?  No matter what they tell you will happen, or if they threaten you, you tell someone.  You promise?"

She nodded.

"But before you tell us," he continued, "I need you to pull out all the stops on what Mickey taught us.  I want you to kick ass like you're Mulan training to fight the Huns.  Kick, punch, bite, pinch, the works.  Make them bleed.  Show them who they messed with."

She smiled.  "Jane Fucking Gallagher, that's who!"

He laughed and kissed her forehead before standing.  "That's right.  Jane Fucking Gallagher."

 

Clayton knocked on his door after he'd put Jane to bed.  "Have you forgiven me yet?" he asked.

Ian closed the book he was reading and looked up at his father standing in the doorway, a sad smile on his face.  He shrugged, and Clayton walked in, sitting on the end of his bed.

"Look, Ian, you know I would never hurt any of you.  Things have just been a little...rough the last few days, that's all.  I lost my cool when I saw her in there, and that shouldn't have happened."

"You're right, it shouldn't have.  She was just trying to figure out what happened.  She didn't understand any of it."

"I know, I know," he groaned, dragging his hands over his face.  "I suck right now, but I don't want any of you going in there.  I'm gonna lock it up."

"Thought Lucy had a no-locks policy?"

"Yeah, well..." he surveyed Ian's room, mouth twitching when his eyes settled on the doorknob.  "Things have changed."

 

* * *

 

[From: **T** **his doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_don't take those anxiety pills on an empty stomach_

[To:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_it's been two weeks. i think i know how to take my pills._

[From:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_skipped a dose yesterday. eat some breakfast._

 

Ian rolled his eyes at Mickey's message.  Ever since his father had picked up the prescription for Ativan, his family had been even more watchful than usual--always making sure he took his daily dosage and monitoring him for any side effects or allergic reaction.  Their concern was wholly unnecessary; he knew the risks that came with this kind of medication.

 

[To:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_you're such a nag._

[From:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_shut up, you love it.  would you rather be dry heaving all day and having stomach spasms, or just barfing up some cereal?_

[To:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_cereal, i guess._

[From:  **This doesn't mean anything so stop fucking smiling** ]

_that's what i thought.  now go learn something_

 

As much of a hassle as those small white pills were, they were doing him wonders, even making school easier for him.  He found himself interacting with his classmates moreso than usual, even laughing at some of their jokes.  He didn't read alone on his end of a lunch table, he engaged with the people on the other side.  He even participated more in gym class.

In fact, now that he was no longer weighed down by it, he realized just how crippling his anxiety had been; he had so much more energy now, energy that he decided to channel into regular exercise after school.  Weight lifting, running on the treadmill, and the hundred sit-ups a day goal he'd set for himself made him feel stronger than he'd felt in years.

Unfortunately, his new hobby was a big source of annoyance for everyone else.

"Yo, Gallagher!"

He turned at the sound of his name being called and found Mickey jogging to catch up to him where he stood waiting for a bus.  "What are you doing here?"

Mickey shrugged and scratched his nose.  "Mandy's worried about you."

The attempt at nonchalance didn't fool Ian for a second.  "Why are you worried about me?" he asked slyly.

Mickey gave him a look.  " _I'm_ not, but if I  _was_ , I would  _guess_ that it's because you're stayin' after school til five o'clock in the weight room by yourself."

Ian furrowed his brows.  "What's that got to do with anything?"

"I read up on the pills you're taking.  Ativan?  You shouldn't be working out so much, there's these side effects, like clumsiness and slow reflexes.  You shouldn't be anywhere near that kind of machinery, man, let alone by yourself for three hours."

"I'm fine," he said shortly.  "I don't need you coming to check up on me."

"Uh huh.  You eat lunch?" he asked.

"I--" Ian stopped himself.  He could remember sitting in the cafeteria and talking, but not what he'd eaten.  "Yeah, I think so."

Mickey tapped his fingers against Ian's temple.  "Memory loss.  Another side effect.  One of these days you're gonna forget that you already did ten reps on the bench, try for fifteen, and drop the thing on yourself when your arms give out at four."

"Shut up.  I can handle it."

"Bullshit.  If you're gonna work yourself to death the least you could do is have someone there to spot you."

"I appreciate the concern, Mick, but I can do it myself."

Mickey rolled his eyes.  "What are you, the lone wolf?  Let me help you, for fuck's sake--"

"I don't need your help!" he yelled.  "I'm not  _weak_.  I'm not some defenseless little kid, alright?  I don't need you to swoop in and save me all the time, and I sure as shit don't need you to lecture me!"

There was a tense silence before Mickey nodded resolutely and brought his hand up to brush his thumb across his bottom lip.  "Fuckin' tough guy, huh? Hostility's another one.  Your dad didn't notice any of this shit?"

"I'm not experiencing any side effects, you're just being annoying," he gritted out.  "I can't be irritated without there being something wrong with me?"

"When you're taking this kinda stuff, no."

The empty bus pulled up then, and they climbed on, taking a bench seat.  "Look, I'm just trying to bulk up a bit," Ian assured him.

"What for?"

"So I can stop being so fucking useless and actually defend myself for a change instead of relying on everyone else to do it."

Mickey's jaw clenched.  "You're not useless, Ian.  Stop talking about yourself like you're some goddamned invalid.  You were hurt, and that's the kind of shit that takes a while to recover from, alright?  You're...fuck, do you realize that you fucking fell asleep with me twice and didn't freak the fuck out?  And you talked to that Jimmy dude alone.  You told the police  _everything_ , and that takes fucking guts, man.  You've always been strong, you don't need to build yourself up like Seagal to prove it."

A lump formed in Ian's throat at Mickey's words, but he quickly swallowed it down.  "Who says I wanna look like Seagal?  I was aiming more for Van Damme, he's way better."

Mickey snorted.  "You are out of your mind.  Have you seen that ponytail?  That's a powerful ponytail, that's bullshit.  Seagal could totally kick Van Damme's ass."

Ian laughed.  "Unless it's  _Double Impact_ Van Damme.  'Cause that is some Van double  _damn!_ "

Mickey rolled his eyes at the pun.  "Fuck Van Damme.  You're such a fucking dork, man."

Ian put his head on Mickey's shoulder and looked up at him through his eyelashes.  "Yeah, but you love it," he teased.

Mickey's heart leapt into his throat at the casual motion and the easy smile on Ian's face.  He just looked so amazingly relaxed, his green eyes shining happily and the smallest of dimples dipping into his cheek.  There was a light smattering of freckles inked into the skin across his nose, and he found himself wanting to count them, or trace shapes connecting the dots with his fingers.

His arm was suddenly winding itself over Ian's shoulders of its own volition, but he wouldn't have stopped it even if he could.  Ian smiled impossibly wider at the movement, adjusting himself so that his head was more comfortably nestled closer to Mickey's neck.  His eyes slipped closed, but the contented grin remained in place. He waited a few minutes for Ian to drift into a light doze before gently pressing a kiss to the top of his head and letting himself rest there, smelling his shampoo.  He could feel the light puff of Ian's breath against the column of his throat, and it was oddly relaxing...

The bus's sudden stop jolted him awake, and Ian's eyes shot open at his jerk.  The driver was watching them closely in her mirror, and Mickey found her gaze unnerving. As they stepped off, she called "Have a nice evening, boys," down at them, waving and smiling.  Ian returned her sentiment and watched her pull off before setting off in the direction of his house and turning to Mickey.  "So...it's Friday."

"Astute, Freckles."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"If you're gonna sing that stupid fucking song--"

Ian laughed.  "No, I was just pointing it out.  Wasn't sure you were aware.  You know what else tomorrow is?"

"Enlighten me," he deadpanned.

"Jane's birthday.  And Debbie's."

"Really?  I don't know if I can take another Gallagher birthday party, man."

Ian shoved him playfully.  "Shut up.  I was just thinking that maybe you could, you know...sleep over?"

"Do you have permission for this sleepover?" Mickey asked, pulling out a cigarette.

"Nope."

"Well I'm not one to disobey rules; I wasn't brought up that way."

"Yeah, can't have you participating in any illicit activities."

"And besides, I'm not that kind of boy."

Ian quirked his eyebrows.  "And what kind of boy is that?"

"The kind to go home with someone who didn't buy me dinner."

Ian laughed.  "I'll make you something when we get home."

"Good.  I want steak.  No, lobster.  Make me lobster."

"I'll see what I can do."

They ambled on in amiable silence after that, hands occasionally brushing together and triggering a soft warmth that flowed up their arms and into their chests.  Small smiles were exchanged with the heat, and Mickey had never felt so overwhelmingly like he would simultaneously float away and drown, nor did he ever think he would again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the second verse of Birdy's cover of "Shelter."
> 
> "Can I be, was I there,  
> Felt so crystal in the air.  
> I still want to drown whenever you leave,  
> Please teach me gently on how to breathe."
> 
> i'm not entirely happy with this one, but i felt bad and wanted to get something out. also i just wanted to be done with it already; this chapter was really frustrating.


	15. Just Hanging Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i start classes on the 25th and move back onto campus tomorrow, so i'm gonna try to get myself on a once-a-week updating schedule after this. that, of course, depends on homework and hopefully having a job and possibly hanging out with my friends, so it might end up being every two weeks or once a month.
> 
> this one's pretty fluffy, but with some canon angst thrown in to stir things up a bit. i hope you all like it, i'm really nervous about this one.

Ian dropped a plate of fish sticks onto the coffee table in front of Mickey, who was sitting on the couch aimlessly flipping through channels. "Here's your lobster," he said, grinning.

Mickey turned his nose up at it.  "Looks a bit undercooked," he sniffed.  "Bring me something else."

"How about our complementary baked potato?  It comes highly recommended."

"Yeah, sure.  Get me that and I'll consider leaving you a tip."

Ian snorted before going back into the kitchen to get the plate of French fries he'd also prepared.  "Is this dish to your liking, sir?" he asked with a flourish.

Mickey took a fry and dragged it through some ketchup before dropping it into his mouth.  "I suppose it'll do," he amended.

"Good.  Can't have our most valued guest being dissatisfied."

The two exchanged goofy grins before Malcolm huffed out an impatient sigh from his place in the armchair.  "Can you guys please stop flirting?  You're not even doing it right."

Ian snorted from his spot next to Mickey.  "What would you know about flirting?"

"Enough to know it's supposed to be  _cute_ , not the dorky crap you're doing."

"I think we're plenty cute," Ian responded, pinching Mickey's cheek as he took another bite of a fish stick.

He glared.  "I'll spit on you," he said around the food, already starting to spray a few crumbs out.  Instead of being intimidated, Ian merely chuckled and booped Mickey's nose with his finger.  Mickey looked scandalized.

Malcolm scowled.  "You're so weird," he complained.  "Will you pick something already?  Before Jane gets home, takes over, and puts on  _The Incredibles_ again?"  Clayton and Lucy had decided to take her to the local skating rink, leaving just as Ian and Mickey walked through the door.

"What's wrong with  _The Incredibles_?" Ian asked.

"Nothing's wrong with it, I'm just tired of watching it all the time."

"Ooh,  _Insidious_ is starting," Mickey said, grinning wickedly as he pushed select on the remote.

Malcolm paled.  "Um, Mom says I'm not supposed to watch R-rated movies."

Ian snorted.  "Yeah, because you fucking pissed your pants during  _Resident Evil_.  And it wasn't even that scary."

"Shut up, I did not!  You're the one who cried at the end of  _The Fox and the Hound_ , and that one wasn't even sad."

"Disney makes you cry?" Mickey snickered.  "Jeez, man, how old are you?"

"Shut up," Ian grumbled.  He turned to his brother.  "Are you staying to watch with us or cowering in your room?"

"I do not  _cower_ ," he answered, affronted.  "And the suspenseful buildup in  _Resident Evil_ is half the scare.  The first half hour is terrifying!"

"Uh huh.  Just go read or something."

"I can't go read, I'm supposed to be chaperoning."

Ian rolled his eyes.  "We don't need a chaperone."

"Well Dad gave me ten bucks to stay down here and annoy you, so that's what I'm doing."

"Ten bucks?" Mickey scoffed.  "Big spender."

"Why'd he pay you?  You would've done it for free."

Malcolm sat back, playing with a loose thread on his sweater.  "I may or may not have told him that spying on you was against my newly found moral code."

Ian rolled his eyes.  "Debbie teach you how to hustle people?"

"She says I'm a work in progress."

He shook his head.  "Just don't talk through the whole thing, alright?  And I don't want to hear you whimpering, either."

"I don't  _whimper_."

"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Mickey interrupted.  "We're missing valuable character backstory and exposition right now.  Neither one of you better ask me questions when you don't know anyone's fuckin' name."

Ian rolled his eyes and went to turn off the lights in the kitchen and living room.  Malcolm gulped, but didn't object.

As the film progressed, Malcolm paid less and less attention to it in a steady decline.  He was by no means a horror movie fanatic, not like Mickey seemed to be, and the mounting tension and increasing creepiness was affecting him more than he'd care to admit in present company.  He instead contented himself with watching his brother and his boyfriend interact.  They seemed to inch closer to each other as the movie played, illuminated by the images flashing across the screen.  Ian's movements were more deliberate, watching Mickey out of the corner of his eye before sliding slightly closer.  Mickey pretended not to notice, but Malcolm caught the small smile he'd send Ian's way before settling deeper into the couch.  By the time Josh had entered the spirit realm on a quest to get Dalton back, Ian was laying across the couch with his head in Mickey's lap, and Mickey was alternating between casually running his fingers through Ian's hair and lighting stroking his arm.

He felt as though he were intruding on them, especially when it became apparent that Ian wasn't paying attention to the movie either; his eyes were fixed on Mickey's face, a nervous smile playing on his lips.  Mickey, of course, was completely engrossed, only occasionally tearing his eyes away from the screen to glance down at Ian and smile.  They were being so stupidly cute that it made him want to gag.

When the movie ended, Malcolm was expecting Ian to spring up to turn on the lights, but when he glanced over at them he saw that his brother had dozed off in Mickey's lap.  Mickey was staring down at Ian with a focused intensity that put Malcolm on edge; one hand was resting atop Ian's head, thumb gently rubbing back and forth, while the other was clenched into a fist, the expletive inked into the skin standing out harshly.  The contrast was startling, and it spoke to the duality of Mickey's personality, at least where Ian was concerned: tender vs. terrifying; peaceful vs. pugnacious; soft vs. strong.

"What are you thinking?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

Mickey froze, startled, as if he'd forgotten Malcolm existed.  "What?"

"When you look at him like that," he clarified.  "What are you thinking?"

"None of your fucking business," he answered brusquely.

They sat in silence after that, watching ads flicker across the screen while they waited for the next movie, _Sinister_ , to start.  "What was he like?" Mickey asked suddenly. "Before, I mean."

Malcolm thought it over for a moment.  "Different," he settled on lamely.  "He was really different.  Sometimes he wouldn't look at any of us during breakfast; he'd just sit and stare at his plate.  And he was always nervous.  Fidgeted a lot, and stuttered."

Mickey nodded, still staring down at Ian.  "And now?"

"He smiles a lot.  Tells jokes that only Dad and Jane laugh at, but I saw my mom smile at one once.  Dad said he's probably hyperactive from those pills he's taking, but he was doing that stuff before he started taking them, too.  Not as much, but he was definitely smiling."

Mickey nodded again.

They settled back into their quiet while the opening sequence for  _Sinister_ started.  "You're good for him.  He's never been...like this before."

Mickey didn't respond, keeping his eyes fixed on Malcolm's.

"It's almost like you're putting him back together, you know?  He never really had any friends before you and your sister."

"I know," he said quietly, looking back down at a still sleeping Ian.

"You can't break him."  The words tumbled out without his consent, tripping over his tongue, and Mickey started at the sentiment.  "He's--he's finally getting fixed, so you can't break him, okay?"

He scoffed.  "Do I look like I would hurt him?  And even if I did, the fuck would you do about it?"

Malcolm pushed his glasses up from where they'd slipped down his nose and puffed out his thin chest.  "Then I'd find a way to hurt you, too.  Or I'd get Jane to."

Mickey quirked his eyebrows, mildly impressed.  "Thought you didn't like him."

Malcolm shrugged.  "He's okay, but I didn't at first.  He made Mom and Dad fight a lot, and I thought they would split up over him.  Dad was always trying to spend time with him and Jane always wanted to play with him, and he was always Uncle Ned's favorite--"  He cut himself off, cheeks reddening as he chanced a nervous glance at Mickey, whose jaw was clenched so tight that Malcolm worried he'd grind his teeth to dust.  "Sorry," he muttered quickly.

Mickey kept his eyes on Ian.  "It's fine," he gritted out.  They sat in an awkward silence before Mickey pushed through his agitation to continue their aborted conversation.  "Why you still being such an asshat if he's 'okay'?"

He shrugged.  "Why change what works?"

Mickey snorted.  "You know, you're kinda alright, kid.  But if you ever make baby meat cry again like you did in that store, I'll hang you by your underwear from the flagpole in front of your school."

He gulped.  "Duly noted."

Some time after they'd finished talking and the movie played on, the rest of the Gallaghers returned home, laughing and teasing each other. "What the hell?" Clayton muttered, fumbling in the darkness for the light switch.  Light flooded the room, making Malcolm and Mickey flinch, Mickey covering Ian's closed eyes with his hand so as to keep him from being disturbed.  Clayton smiled at the gesture, looking fondly at his sleeping son.  "Did you guys eat?  We brought back some pizza."

"I could eat," Mickey responded.  "What kind?"

"Mushroom!" Jane answered eagerly.

Mickey scrunched his nose.  "Ew, nevermind."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," she said, sticking her tongue out at him.  "It's really good!  Ian loves it."

She scampered to the kitchen to get a slice for her brother, coming back to hold it under his nose.  They watched his nostrils flare and his eyebrows furrow in confusion for a few moments before his eyes blinked open.  "Wuzz goin on?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Food," she said presenting the plate.

He sat up and accepted it.  "Thanks.  Did you have fun?"

"Yup, lots!  And I only fell twice!"

Ian laughed.  "Wow, record low.  Congrats."

"It's because I've aged," she said matter of factly.  "I'm mature now."

He snorted.  "Your birthday's tomorrow, you're not older yet."

"You age every day, Ian.  My matureness is growing by the second!"

"Maturity," he corrected, snickering.

"That's what I said."

"Oh, speaking of her birthday," Clayton interjected, "we talked it over in the car, and Lucy thought it would be a good idea to combine their celebrations this year."

Ian and Malcolm narrowed their eyes in confusion.  "It was Lucy's idea?"

"Yeah, and I talked to Fiona already, so they'll head over some time in the afternoon.  She said your sister would probably come too, Mickey.  Debbie seems to have grown attached to her."

"God help her," Mickey mumbled under his breath.  Ian shot him a look.  "Save the righteous indignation and eat your disgusting food, man," he snapped.

"We got pepperoni too, Mickey," Clayton called from the kitchen.

"Awesome," he said, bumping shoulders with Ian as he stood up.  Ian smiled dopily at him as we walked away, cheeks full of food.

"You look like a chipmunk," Jane remarked.  He merely stuck his tongue out, bits of chewed up pizza sitting on it.  "You're disgusting.  I'm above that sort of thing now," she sniffed, flipping her hair.

"Yeah, sure you are kid," Mickey said as he came back, cuffing her on the head.  He took a huge bite of his slice and grinned at her, cheese and dough oozing out and a line of grease trailing out the corner of his mouth.  Ian burst out laughing at the horrified look on her face, and she glared at them before flouncing away.

Lucy happened to glance at the television during Ethan Hawke's viewing of a tape where someone was run over by a lawn mower.  "What on Earth are you watching?" she asked, scandalized.

" _Sinister_ ," Ian answered nonchalantly.

"Well turn it off.  You'll give Malcolm nightmares."

"He already watched  _Insidious_ , he'll be fine."

She still looked dubious, but dropped the issue and went back to her food.  "Everyone should be here around two, so don't stay up too late, boys.  And please, no smoking.  It takes forever to get the smell out the sheets."

"You've got nothing to worry about, Lucy," Ian assured her.  Mickey sniggered beside him.

 

* * *

 

"Hey," Mickey said, nudging Ian.  The rest of the house had long since fallen asleep, and they were laying side by side on Ian's bed, staring up at the ceiling while Mickey smoked.  "You want some?"  He presented his joint, slowly blowing the vapors out his nostrils.

"Sure."  Ian accepted, taking a slow drag.  The two boys laid together in silence. allowing their buzz to descend on them gradually.  Ian rolled over suddenly, an expression of absolute glee on his face.  "We should play a game."

Mickey glanced at him before puffing again.  "What kind of game?"

"Two Truths and a Lie," he answered, grinning wickedly.

"The fuck kinda game is that?"

"You say three things about yourself, and one of them has to be a lie.  I'm supposed to guess which one."

"Why would you wanna play that?" he asked with derision.

Ian shrugged.  "You know my secrets.  Maybe I wanna know some of yours."

Mickey thought it over for a moment before nodding.  "Alright.  You first."

"Okay.  Um, I used to watch  _Gilmore Girls_ with Fiona,  _Sin City_ is my favorite movie, and squirrels freak me out."

Mickey laughed.  "That's easy, the  _Sin City_ one."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh please, you couldn't handle that shit."

"Fine, you go then."

Mickey took a drag as the thought.  "Alright," he said, exhaling rings of smoke.  "I used to watch  _Powerpuff Girls_ with Mandy when we were little, my childhood crush was on Danny Zuko, and I once stole some lady's cat to collect the reward money." _  
_

Ian laughed.  "Hmm...I'm gonna go with the  _Powerpuff Girls_."

"Shows what you know," Mickey said smugly.  "That was true."

Ian snorted.  "Figures.  What was the lie, then?"

"Crush wasn't on Danny Zuko; it was on Kenickie."

"Kenickie?" he furrowed his brows.  "But Kenickie wasn't even that hot."

"Fuck off, he was too.  Guy was a badass."

"He had a weird face."

"You have a weird face," Mickey muttered darkly.  "All those damn freckles.  Fuckin' alien lookin'."

They fell into a fit of giggles, clutching their sides and trying not to roll so much on the small bed.  Ian was suddenly struck by the way Mickey laughed; head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut, mouth open in a wide smile.  His neck was flushed red from the force of it, some of the blush creeping into his cheeks.  The sight transfixed him, and he did the only thing left to do: He swooped in without warning and pecked him on the apple of his cheek, right below his eye.

Mickey's eyes shot open, his laughter choked off.  He sat and stared at Ian for so long that the scrutiny was making his skin crawl; his mind was flurrying with steadily increasing panic, berating himself for being  _stupid, so fucking goddamn stupid, why would you do that?--_

"The fuck was that?  How fucking old are we, Gallagher, five?  If you're gonna kiss me, then fucking kiss me.  Don't pussy out on me."

Ian's eyes widened in surprise.  Mickey had an expectant look on his face, but also patient, like he would sit there and wait for as long as it took for what was coming, because he  _knew_ , he  _knew_ what Ian would do.

He leaned in slowly, gaze alternating between Mickey's eyes and his lips.  When he was close enough to feel each exhale blow across his face and mingle with his own shaky breaths, he chanced one last look at Mickey's eyes.  Mickey quirked an eyebrow and smirked, challenging him, so he smiled back and went for it.

It didn't feel the way he'd imagined it would.

Their lips were dry and slightly chapped, but the contact was warm.  The heat spread through his cheeks slowly, but felt like wildfire in his chest, scorching everything in its path.  His stomach flipped more times than an Olympic gymnast, but the sensation was pleasant and inviting.  They kept their eyes open, watching each other for reactions before pulling away from the soft press of lips, slightly dizzy.

Mickey licked his lips and grinned crudely, making Ian laugh.  His head was buzzing with nerves and excitement, conveyed in his giddy smile.  "So fucking pleased with yourself," Mickey remarked.

"I want to do it again," he blurted out.

Mickey laughed, leaning back to rest his weight on his elbows.  "Then do it.  No one's stopping you."

Ian's smile widened, and he surged forward to press his mouth against Mickey's more insistently this time.  Mickey brought a hand up to Ian's face and cupped his cheek, both of them closing their eyes.  The heat was in their fingertips, rushing up their arms and down their backs, leaving Ian's toes tingling.  He shifted his weight so that he was laying on top of Mickey, and he felt the other boy's tongue snake out to just barely lick across his bottom lip.  He gasped at the sensation, and Mickey took the opportunity to dip his tongue in slightly, tasting the sweetness of the weed and something else, something that was purely Ian.  Ian's tongue tentatively tangled with his, testing the waters, and the fire that sparked in his chest was nearly uncontrollable.

It drove him mad.  He wanted more, more of that taste, more of that indescribable scent, more of _Ian_.

"Stop," Mickey commanded, pulling away and breathing deeply.  "We have to stop."

"What?  Why?"  There was confusion and some sadness in his eyes, and Mickey hated seeing it.  "Was--was it not good?" he asked tentatively, twisting his fingers in in the sheets anxiously.

"Of course it was good, you idiot.  That's why we have to stop."

Ian furrowed his brows before understanding dawned on him.  "Oh.  Sorry."

Mickey snorted.  "Don't apologize, it was a good thing."  He brushed his hand against Ian's where it rested on the bed, and Ian twined their fingers together.

After a few moments of staring at their clasped hands and blushing, they seemed to mutually agree to lay down to sleep, turning to spoon like they had last time.  Ian kept his hand curled around Mickey's, and Mickey felt warmth settling in his stomach at the sight.

"Hey, Mickey?" Ian asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Are we, um...a couple?"

Mickey turned over to look at him.  Ian was avoiding his gaze, keeping his eyes locked on an imaginary pattern his other hand was tracing on the sheets.  "The fuck you askin' stupid fuckin' questions for?  Of course we are, dumbass."

The smile that split his face gleamed through the darkness, and Mickey turned back around before he combusted at the beauty of it.

 

* * *

 

Ian woke up smiling, comfortably warm inside and out; he was wrapped around Mickey, feeling his breaths flow through his chest and his heart beat against his own. Late morning sunlight washed over them through his open shade, and he watched dust filter through the air.  Mickey was still breathing deeply and evenly, so Ian knew he was still sleeping.  He took the opportunity to observe his...boyfriend-- _holy shit, Mickey was his **boyfriend**_ \--marvelling at his beautifully pale skin, the dark lashes sweeping against his cheeks, the way his nose twitched every so often, his slightly open mouth and full pink lips--

He’d kissed those lips yesterday.

The memory of what had transpired last night sent his head buzzing.  They’d actually _kissed_ \--lips pressing together, tongues touching, _tasting_ each other.  It was a rush the likes of which he’d never felt before, something so indescribably exhilarating and liberating and fucking _awesome_.  It was all so new and amazing, and he never wanted to stop.

Before he’d even consciously made the decision, he was pressing himself closer to Mickey, leaning in to gently place his mouth on the side of the other boy’s forehead. Mickey snuffled a bit in his sleep, turning slightly toward Ian, who took that as an invitation to continue.  He moved his mouth down to Mickey’s cheek, exerting just enough pressure to feel stubble prick him.  Mickey huffed out a heavy breath, eyes beginning to flutter open.  “The fuck you doin’, man?” he asked gruffly.

“Nothing,” he grinned.  “Just kissing my boyfriend is all.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Well if I’d known getting a boyfriend would be like this, I wouldn’t have bothered,” he teased.

“Shut up, you love it.”  Ian smiled and leaned down again.  Mickey stretched his neck up to meet his lips for a lazy peck that left Ian dazed and grinning.  Mickey tried not to let the light in Ian’s eyes affect him, but he could feel his heart swelling at the sight of it.

He was so fucked.

A knock on the door interrupted them.  “Ian?” Jane’s muffled voice came through.  “Can I come in?  Daddy says I have to ask permission, but if you’re asleep you can’t give me any, so I’m just gonna come in now, okay?”  She didn’t wait for an answer, barging in to find her brother hastily arranging his sheets and looking at the doorway with wide eyes.  “Oooh, you were naughty,” she said wickedly, wagging her finger.  “You smoked when Mommy told you not to.”

“Did not,” he denied quickly.

“You did too, you big liar.  I can smell it,” she said smugly.

Mickey sighed.  “Look, Jane Eyre, if you rat on us to Mrs. Reed you won’t get to learn the fighting technique I was gonna teach you today.  I’ll let you hold my knife,” he said invitingly.

“You read _Jane Eyre_?” Ian asked, surprised.

Mickey rolled his eyed and turned to Ian, exasperated.  “Really, fuckhead?  That’s all you got outta that, that I read a fuckin’ book?  I just offered your baby sister a switchblade.”

“Oh, right.  No playing with knives ’til you’re twelve, Jane.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed dramatically.  “Fine.  But I want a big one, like Carl has.”

“Of course you do,” he muttered.  “We’ll talk to him and find out where he got it, okay?”

“Awesome!” she exclaimed, appeased.  “Mom made brunch: waffles, eggs, and grilled cheese.”

“We’ll be right down,” Mickey assured her.  He flopped back down on the bed as she shut the door behind her and pegged a rubberband ball at Ian.  “She’s nine, dude,” he berated.  “Gotta prioritize.”

“Sorry, just got thrown by the fact that you read classic literature.”

“Well what can I say?” he pulled on a pair of Ian’s sweatpants that was laying around and grinned slyly at Ian watching him.  “I’m full of surprises.”

Ian smirked back at him.  “Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.”

 

* * *

 

The joint birthday party for the youngest Gallagher girls was in full swing.  A rousing game of Pin the Tail on Malcolm had everyone--except Malcolm--in high spirits, until he suggested the even more amusing game of Get the Pants off Mickey.  So far, Jane was winning by a long shot.  Ian stood against the wall with Mandy, watching fondly as his family--minus Clayton, Lucy and Lip--chased his indignant boyfriend around the house, yanking his sweats down every chance they got.  "This isn't fucking funny!" he yelled from the top of the stairs.  "I'm coming for all of you, I swear to fucking God!"

Mandy, despite the entertainment her brother was providing--"Jesus fuck, Carl, get the fuck away from me!"--was quiet, looking pensive and morose.  Ian nudged her shoulder with his and gave her a small smile.  "Not interested in Mickey's boxers?"

She laughed shortly.  "Nah.  I'm not really into family members' undergarments at the moment."

He froze.  "Did--did something happen?"

She sighed.  "You could say that."

He grabbed her hand and led her out to the deck, leaving Mickey's shouts--"You're all a bunch of fucking freaks!"--and everyone else's laughter behind.  She didn't speak right away, and he didn't encourage her to; they simply sat on the steps and watched the wind blow through the grass.  "I need an abortion," she said softly.

Ian closed his eyes, suddenly nauseous.  "Mandy..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say.  He settled for placing his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

"Don't touch me for a while, okay?" she asked shakily, pulling out and lighting a cigarette.

He nodded.  "Did you...are you sure?  That you're pregnant, I mean?"

"I've never been this late before," she answered, staring listlessly at the dirt caked onto her boots.

He ached to hold her, so he sat on his hands to control the urge.  "How much will it cost?"

"600, I think."

His eyebrows shot up.  "Really?  Wow."

"Yeah, I know.  By the time I save enough from the Kash & Grab it'll be too late."

"Mickey could give you some, couldn't he?"

"No, because I'm not asking him for any."

"You could always tell him you're looking to score some coke or something."

"Then he'd want a cut to sell in school."

He paused.  "You could tell him the truth," he said hesitantly.

She glared at him.  "No."

"Are you sure?  He--"

"No, Ian.  I'm not telling him anything, and neither are you."

He gulped.  "Mandy, I really think--"

"Well I don't care what you think.  Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch you leave my house with Ned?  Do you?"

"You're the one who told me I should tell someone, remember?"

"Yeah, and you didn't listen."

"And look how well that turned out!  They all know, and you know what?  I'm glad they do."

"Bullshit," she snorted, taking a drag.  "You like that they give you those pitying looks and don't know how to talk around you?  You like that they change the subject when you walk into the room?"

"I like that no one's sneaking into my room anymore," he retorted.  "Maybe one day you'll get to find out what that feels like."

She narrowed her eyes and set her mouth into a hard line, smoke coming out of her flared nostrils.  "Fuck you.  You don't understand this at all."

"Then explain it to me!  Why won't you let me help you?"

"Do you have any idea what goes on in some of those foster homes?" she demanded.  "We got put in the system once, after our mom died and Dad fucked off to God knows where, and let me tell you," she said derisively.  "My dad is a walk in the park compared to those people.  So I'm sorry if I'd rather deal with two minutes of shitfaced Terry getting off in me and slobbering all over my neck and crying himself to sleep than whatever those fuckers can come up with.  And it's not like I'm not moving out the first chance I get; Linda already said she'd take me once I turned eighteen."

He clenched his jaw.  "Fine.  But I want you to call me next time."

She puffed once and blew smoke out the side of her mouth.  "You have enough to deal with.  Aren't they supposed to call you with the date of his bail hearing soon?"

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face.  "Yeah.  I'm not sure I want to go or not."

"Have you talked to anyone else about it?"

"No.  They'd all tell me not to go."

"Do you want to?"

He shrugged.  "Part of me does, but most of me just wants to stay in my room all day when I think about it."

She took another drag, thinking it over.  "I think you owe it to the part of yourself that wants to do it to at least try, but it's up to you.  You're courageous if you do, but you're not a coward if you don't."

He nodded.  "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Definitely right," she corrected.  "I'm also the smartest person you know.  And the prettiest."

He laughed.  "Yeah, okay."  He paused for a moment before saying, "We could always raise it, you know."

She looked at him incredulously.  "The money, not the baby," he assured her.  "Or we could ask my dad for some cash."

"600 bucks?"

He considered.  "Maybe he'd go for two.  You can put in what you've saved so far, and we'll put on a fundraiser for the rest."

She nodded.  "Alright.  What kind of fundraiser?"

"Could put Mickey in a dunk tank and have everyone he's ever terrorized come pay to try getting him submerged."

She raised her eyebrows, impressed.  "Not bad.  And if that fails, there's always a good old-fashioned bake sale."

"Oh, Fiona's neighbor Kev grows some pot every summer to sell on an ice cream truck with Lip.  You could ask him for some leftovers to put in a couple batches of brownies."

She shook her head, giving him a congenial half-smile before the patio door slid open.  "Clayton got us ice cream cake!" Debbie said excitedly.

"We'll be right there, Debs," Ian responded.  She went back inside, and he turned to Mandy.  "I'll get you the money, I promise."

She smiled somewhat shyly, kicking her feet and looking up at him with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes.  "You'd do that for me?" she asked softly.

"Of course I would; you're my best friend."

She put her head on his shoulder and snuggled closer to him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist in return.  "I don't know how to thank you."

He kissed her forehead.  "You don't have to."

 

* * *

 

Clayton and Fiona had started rounding up her troops at around six to get back home.  Ian tried to swing another sleepover with Mickey and Mandy, but Clayton held fast.  "Have any of you even opened your backpacks since you left school Friday?  Do your homework, for God's sake."

Mandy hugged him tightly and kissed him on the cheek before going outside with the rest of the Gallaghers, which left Ian and Mickey alone in the living room.  "I'm sorry about before, with your pants," Ian said, trying to contain his laughter.

Mickey glared at him.  "Fuck off, you bastard.  Didn't see you rushing to my defense."

"Well maybe it's because I liked seeing your little legs."

"My legs aren't fuckin' little."

"Yeah they are, and they're pretty nice."

"Shut up."

"It's true!  They're adorable."

"Don't call me adorable.  Nothing about me is adorable; I'm a fucking pitbull."

Ian patted the top of his head.  "It's so cute that you think that."

Mickey batted his hand away, trying to look gruff and put-upon, but Ian could see the smile playing at his lips.

"Can I kiss you again?" he asked abruptly.

Mickey snorted.  "You don't have to ask permission, man.  Just don't do it in public."

"I'll try to control myself," he smirked.

Mickey rolled his eyes before they leaned in for a small peck, blushing as they pulled away.  "Don't think that changes anything, though," he warned him.  "I'm still mad at you, fuckface."

Ian laughed.  "Like that'll last.  You know you love me."

Mickey froze suddenly, looking stricken.  Ian's laughter cut off, realizing what he'd said.  "Oh--I was just joking, you don't have to--"

"Yeah," Mickey said quietly.

"...Yeah what?" Ian asked tentatively.

He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.  "Yeah, I...I can't stay mad at you."

Ian's shoulders slumped slightly in disappointment, but quickly covered it up.   _It's way too soon, anyway.  Jeez, what were you thinking?_  "I wouldn't be able to stay mad at you, either," he admitted softly.

Mickey's eyes bored into his own, and his cheeks flamed under the intensity of his gaze.  "I'll see you later, Ian," he said finally, walking backward toward the door and keeping their eyes locked.

"Yeah," Ian smiled.  "Later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the bridge of "When the Day met the Night" by Panic! at the Disco.
> 
> "Well he was just hanging around,  
> Then he fell in love.  
> And he didn't know how,  
> But he couldn't get out.  
> Just hanging around,  
> Then he fell in love."


	16. Acts Like Summer and Walks Like Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo so so sorry this took so long. hopefully you all can forgive me. please enjoy!
> 
> and their may be some mistakes because i'm kind of pressed for time and can't proofread right now, but if you see some mistakes, let me know so i know where to look when i have time.
> 
> lol i made a mistake in the note asking people to point out mistakes ahahahaha. i need sleep

They'd never gotten this many calls to the house phone before, and the shrill ringing was beginning to grate on Clayton's nerves.  None of the calls were good, either, having mostly to do with Jane's principal telling them that their daughter had gotten in trouble for biting another kid or Malcolm's telling them that their son started a food fight in the cafeteria in order to avoid his bullies.  So he was already groaning when he walked over to answer it, dread pooling in his stomach as he uttered a gruff, "Hello?"

"Is this the home of Clayton Gallagher?" the woman on the other end asked.

"Yeah, who's this?"

"I work for the Metropolitan Correctional Center of Chicago.  Is your mother Peggy Gallagher?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.  "What's she done now?"

The woman paused.  "She died this morning, sir.  Complications related to her emphysema."

"...Oh," he said quietly.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she said sympathetically.  "Is there a time that you and your brothers would be able to come by--"

"No," he cut her off shortly.  "I'm not coming."

He hung up before she could respond, walking back into the living room, where his family was gathered around the television watching reruns of _The Nanny_.  "Who was that?" Lucy asked, concerned.

Clayton sighed, sitting on the arm of her chair before turning to face his children.  "Grammy's dead, kids," he announced.

Jane and Malcolm looked at each other, confused.  "We have another grandmother?" Jane asked.

"Not anymore," he said solemnly.  He gave them a sad half-smile before standing wearily and huffing out a short breath.  "Think I'll go to bed early."

Lucy followed him up the stairs, keeping a gentle hand on his arm and leaving Ian to answer his younger siblings' questions.

"Who's Grammy?" Malcolm asked.

"Dad's mother," he sighed, turning off the television.  "She's been in prison for a while."

Jane's eyes lit up.  "Prison?" she asked excitedly.  "What'd she do?"

"She ran a meth lab with some college kids, and it exploded one night and killed two of them."

Malcolm's eyes widened.  "Is that why Dad never mentioned her?"

Ian shrugged.  "Don't know.  Frank never talked about her much, either."  His phone buzzed in his pocket at the mention of his uncle, and he opened it to find a text from his older brother.

_you get the call?_

"Is there gonna be a funeral?" Jane asked.

"Don't know.  Maybe," he answered.

[To: **Lip** ]

_yeah.  how's deb holding up?_

"How long was she in prison for?" Malcolm asked.

"A while.  Twelve years, maybe?  Ask Fiona, she probably remembers."

[From: **Lip** ]

_lamenting lost opportunities. you know how it is_

[To: **Lip** ]

_how'd frank take it?_

"Do we get an inheritance now?" Jane asked.  "That's what happens in the movies."

"I don't think she had that much money."

"Why not?" Malcolm asked.  "She was a drug dealer, and they're loaded."

[From: **Lip** ]

_fucked off somewhere._

[To: **Lip** ]

_sheila's?_

[From: **Lip** ]

_nah, pretty sure they're on the outs. bout time, too, it was getting fucking weird_

"Drug dealers are loaded with illegal money, guys.  I'm pretty sure you can't bequeath illegally obtained funds."

Jane narrowed her eyes at him.  "You did that on purpose," she accused.

"Did what?" Ian asked innocently.

"Used big words to annoy us so we'd stop asking you questions."

"Do you honestly think me to be so duplicitous that I'd degrade myself to such actions?"

Her glare intensified.  "I hate you," she said, sticking her tongue out at him and stomping up the stairs.

Malcolm turned to him, amused.  "Does 'degrade' work in that sentence?"

Ian shrugged.  "Fuck if I know."

[To: **Lip** ]

_think she left us any of her drug money?_

[From: **Lip** ]

_who knows? she was a pretty loose canon, from what i remember. and even if she did they'd probably confiscate it_

[To: **Lip** ]

_gotta bury it in the backyard, like aunt ginger_

[From **: Lip** ]

_good plan_

Their conversation withers away after that, and Ian didn't get another text from his brother until early the next morning, as he was getting ready for school.

[From **: Lip** ]

_remember how frank fucked off somewhere yesterday?_

[To **: Lip** ]

_yeah. you find him?_

[From: **Lip** ]

_he came back. with monica._

Ian's phone nearly slipped through his numb fingers.  He hadn't actually seen his mother since the fateful CPS visit that led to him coming to live with Clayton; Monica flitted in and out of the Gallagher house--mostly out during the summer--and had been gone for her longest stretch yet the first summer he'd been there after Liam's birth. She hadn't come to see him during her quest to get Liam back last winter, but Lip had kept him updated.

He'd tried not to let it hurt him that she hadn't even mentioned him once.

[From **: Lip** ]

_she's taking debbie shopping as a late birthday present. might head up your way later._

His jaw clenched, and he didn't know what to feel.  Anger coursed through him, but there was something else there, too, burgeoning beneath the pain: hope. Excitement.  But they only made him angrier.

[To **: Lip** ]

_i don't want to see her._

[From **: Lip** ]

_and you think we do?_

[To **: Lip** ]

_shit. thanks for the warning, i guess_

[From **: Lip** ] **  
**

_sure thing. now go learn something_

 

* * *

 

Ian couldn't focus at all in school.  There was too much in his head, too many memories of his mother surfacing, too many secrets swirling around.

He'd been the one to answer the phone when the police called to let them know that Ned's hearing was scheduled for Monday at 12:25 pm, and he still hasn't told anyone.  They would all tell him to stay away, or offer to come with him, and this was something he needed to do alone.  He'd sent Mandy a simple " _i'm going. monday.,_ " and her lack of response told him that she understood.  She'd probably send him something encouraging the day of, but until then she would keep quiet about it, which he appreciated.

Monica's sudden reappearance on top of the upcoming court date made him walk around foggy and frazzled.  A couple of his teachers eyed him nervously, but didn't confront him about it.  He didn't have anything to say to them, anyway.

He hated the part of himself that was looking forward to seeing her; he was still the little boy who spent his evenings making dinner and dancing around the kitchen with her, who clung to her on his first day of school, who laid with her and cried when she wouldn't get out of bed.  But he was also the little boy she'd let go, the one she hadn't come back for.

_She's back now.  Doesn't that count for anything?_

_**No** , _he told himself sternly.

It'd been six years, for Christ's sake.  Six years of Lucy's withering stares and Fiona's concerned eyes.  Six years of Clayton overcompensating and Malcolm sniggering and Jane clinging.  And Ned.

She'd whispered in his ear that it was better this way, that he'd be better off, that this was the right thing to do.  She'd cried and kissed his hair and sent him off to live with a new family.  She'd avoided the Gallagher house during the summer, reappearing every so often during the school year, when he wasn't there, before abandoning them altogether.

Part of him had felt a vindictive pleasure when she'd left his siblings; now he wasn't the only one being left behind.

And now she was back.  And she was coming to see him.

He didn't know what he would do when she got to his house.  He was the only one expecting her, and part of him wanted to keep their reunion, if it happened, private. But he knew that wouldn't be possible; Clayton had been imposing much more rigid rules ever since Ned had been arrested.  Ian was no longer allowed to go out alone--which he didn't really do much of anyway--and was required to tell him where he was going, how long he would be there, and who he would be with.  He hadn't been off gallivanting before, and his only friends lived too far away for him to walk, so these rules seemed unnecessary to him, but they made his father feel better.

[From:  **Warden** ]

_Come straight home after school.  No gym today._

Speak of the devil.

[From:  **Warden** ]

_Stop rolling your eyes.  You've already gone three times this week.  That's enough._

[To:  **Warden** ]

_whatever you say, mousollini_

[From:  **Warden** ] **  
**

_You spelled that wrong, smartass._

[To:  **Warden** ]

_bite me._

* * *

So really, it was all Clayton's fault.  None of it would've happened if he'd just let Ian go to the gym.

Because instead of sweating away Scrawny Victim Ian Gallagher and burning into Strong Powerful Ian Gallagher--becoming a version of himself he could like and respect, someone who could fight off attackers rather than panic and freeze--he was at home, sitting in the living room with his family and arguing their way through a game of Uno, when the doorbell rang.

Clayton walked off to answer it, and Ian knew who it was before her voice floated past the front door and permeated through the room.

"Clayton!  Long time, no see."

Lucy froze, eye twitching.  Her eyes were glued to Ian's face, which had drained of all color.

"What are you doing here?" Clayton asked stiffly.

"To see Ian, of course!" she said it like it should've been obvious.  "Is he here?"

Ian's chest fluttered, and he found himself wanting to see her face.

He closed his eyes, trying to control himself, but she stood before him when he opened them.

"Ian, baby!"

She was smiling, a wide smile that made her eyes shine and her cheeks flush.

He could hardly speak around the lump in his throat.  "...Hi, Monica."

She bent to throw her arms around him, letting out an excited laugh.  "Oh, it's been so long!  And you're so big, my goodness."

He could see Jane whispering to Malcolm out the corner of his eye, could see the tightness of Lucy's face and the slightly green tint of Clayton's.  "Yeah," he said slowly, trying to collect himself.  "It's been six years, actually."

She didn't seem to pick up on the bitterness of his tone, and her reply was just as giddy as her greeting.  "I know!  We have so much to catch up on, get your jacket!"

Her words had all of them furrowing their brows in confusion.  "What?" Ian asked.

"I haven't seen you in a while, and I wanna take you out.  Get your jacket, we'll get dinner."

Lucy cut him off before he could respond.  "No," she said angrily.

Clayton put a placating hand on her shoulder and started to speak quietly to her, but she shook him off.  "You can't just parade in here whenever you feel like it and demand to spend time with him.  That's not how custody works, Monica."

"He's still my son," she protested.  "I still have rights."

"Not when it takes you six years to make any attempts to contact him!"

The three adults in the room argued around him, but he blocked them out.

He's five years old and staying up all night to bake cupcakes.  He's six and singing along to the radio into a wooden spoon.  He's eight and lost, but Monica finds him and brings him home.

She'd smiled as she stood in front of him, eyes sparkling the way they did in all of his memories of her.  He could smell strawberries in her body wash as she hugged him, just like before.

He spoke before he could stop himself.  "I'll go."

Shocked silence followed his pronouncement, and he found himself wondering why he'd agreed to go with her so readily.  The smile she gifted him with was huge, and he saw his own in it.

"Great!" she hopped excitedly and clapped her hands together.  "Get your jacket, come on!"

"Now wait just a minute!" Clayton exclaimed, outraged.  "You can't just waltz in here and take my son for a joyride, Monica."

"He's my son too, and it's about time I started acting like it, don't you think?"  Lucy snorted derisively, but Monica ignored her.  "And it's not a joyride, it's dinner!  I know a great place, a nice little diner.  It's not far from here."

His face was stony, and the veins in his neck were standing out against his flushed neck.  His eyes flickered to Ian, and he quirked an eyebrow in question.

He nodded, trying to look more resolute than he felt.

Clayton's mouth set into a thin line.  "Ian."

He pushed his shoulders back and jutted his chin out.  "I want to go."

Clayton ground his teeth for a moment before relenting.  "Fine.  You have your phone?"

"Yeah."

"Call me if anything happens," he said seriously.  "I mean it, Ian.  And you," he turned to Monica, "I want him home by seven."

" _Seven_?" she asked incredulously.  "That's no fun.  How about ten?"

Clayton snorted.  "You must be joking.  You're lucky he's going at all, Monica.  I wouldn't push it."

"Nine?"

He glared at her, and before he got the chance to protest, Ian cut in.  "Sounds reasonable to me."

Monica hooked her arm with his, and his skin tingled at the contact.  "You see?  It's fine with him."

"Don't push me, Monica, I swear to God."

She laughed, and suddenly he was in the Gallagher kitchen, hands sticky with batter from their failed attempt at a triple chocolate cake.  "I know how to take care of my son, Clayton."

"Obviously," Lucy muttered.

Monica appeared not to have noticed, keeping her gaze on Clayton.  Her eyes were wide and doe-like, and he made the mistake of looking at Ian, whose expression mirrored hers.

He'd never noticed how alike they were.

"Fine," he relented.  "Nine o'clock.  I mean it, Monica.  If he's not here at nine I'm calling the police about that stolen car you have parked outside my house."

She waved him off.  "It's not  _stolen_.  I borrowed it from a friend."

"Does this friend know you borrowed it?"

"I left her a note," she said dismissively.  "We're wasting time, let's go!"

She started to steer Ian away, but Clayton grabbed his arm to keep him back.  "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly.

Ian looked at his mother, standing in front of their mantle and staring wistfully at pictures of him.  She ran her fingers longingly along the frame of one showing their last trip to the beach.  He'd fallen asleep, and Jane and Malcolm had encased him in sand, making him a mermaid and writing  _Ariel_ above his head.

His throat tightened.  "Reasonably sure," he answered.

Clayton eyed him warily.  "You don't have to go, son.  You don't owe her anything."

Monica smiled softly at the picture of him standing with all of his siblings, fingers tracing the grin on his face.

He gulped.  "I missed her," he admitted quietly.

That was the first time he'd ever said it, and he realized with a jolt that it was true.  He'd missed her pinching his cheeks and dancing with him and jumping on the couch and hugging him tighter than she hugged her other children.

Clayton watched him watch her, conflicted.  "Be careful, buddy."

Ian could hear what he didn't say.   _Don't get too attached.  It won't last._

He didn't make the conscious decision to ignore the warning, but that's what wound up happening.

* * *

They were sitting across from each other in a booth, waiting for their food.  Monica hadn't taken her eyes off of him yet, and he squirmed at the attention.

"You're so beautiful, baby," she said softly, reaching across the table to put her hand on his cheek.  "I can't believe I missed it."

His heart pounded, face warm under her touch.  "You didn't have to," he said, closing his eyes.  "You could've been there."

She smiled sadly at him, taking her hand away and knitting her fingers together in front of her.  He felt cold without it.  "No I couldn't," she said.  "It wouldn't have been right."

"Not right for my mother to visit me?  Or at least not actively avoid me whenever she gets the chance?"

She sniffed and rubbed her eyes.  "Honey--Ian, it was so... _hard_ to give you up, you know?  And I missed you every day.  I _always_ wanted you back."

"Then why did it take you six years to see me?"  His voice broke, and he tried to swallow his emotion.

"Sweetheart, it's not because I didn't want to.  I just couldn't.  Clayton and Lucy, they're good; they feed you and help you with your homework and they take care of you, way better than I ever could.  You didn't need me coming to ruin things for you, not when you finally had something good."

He blinked rapidly, trying to process.  "And what about now?  What changed?"

"Well Frank came by after your grandmother passed, told me he needed me and that the kids did too.  He just cried for hours, I couldn't leave him like that."

"But what about me?  You were at the house with them already, you didn't have to see me."

She gave him a small smile.  "There was a picture of you with Liam on your shoulders in the pool, and you looked so grown up, and happy...I needed to see it for myself."

Tears pricked in his eyes, and he gulped, mouth suddenly dry.  She tentatively extended her hand across the table, palm up, smiling hopefully.

He hesitated before reaching out to meet her in the middle, grasping her hand tightly.  She squeezed his, and it was then that their burgers arrived.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Monica struck up another conversation.  "So what's been going on?  You doing good in school?"

"I do okay," he shrugged.  "Got put in advanced English."

Her eyes lit up.  "Really?  That's great!  You're what, a junior now?"

He nodded, taking another bite.

"Wow," she breathed.  "Oughta be thinking about colleges soon, right?"

"I guess," he said noncommittally.

"Anywhere in particular you wanna go?  Anything you wanna study?"

"I don't know.  Never really thought about it."

Clayton and Lucy would've pressed the issue, asking him what he liked and encouraging him to choose something within that realm, but Monica simply nodded.  "Well you've got your whole life to think about it," she said, smiling easily.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence after that, eating and sneaking glances at each other.  Once they'd both finished and Monica paid for them, she checked the time. "We've still got a couple hours," she murmured.  "Oh, we should go out!" she said excitedly.

"Go out?" he repeated.

"Yeah!  I know a great place, you'll love it."

They drove for about fifteen minutes before stopping outside of a building with a thumping bass line that he could feel from the car.  "Where are we?"

"The White Swallow.  I come every so often with my friends, it's great!"

He watched the crowd waiting to get in and felt his heart rate pick up.  "This is a gay bar," he said slowly.

"Yup!" she said happily.  "They've got great cocktails."

He kept his eyes fixed on a couple in the line, holding hands.  "Why did you bring me to a gay bar?"

"Oh please," she snorted.  "A mother always knows.  And we've gotta stick together, don't we?"

She nudged him with her shoulder at that last part, and he remembered Lip telling him about the girlfriend who'd wanted to raise Liam with her.  "You wanna go in?  I thought it might be fun to dance together again."

His chest fluttered at the reminder of their impromptu dance parties, but he couldn't keep dread from seeping in and pooling in the pit of his stomach.  This was probably one of the scenarios that warranted a call home, but he found himself pushing through it.  "I don't have an ID," he said regretfully.

"You don't need one!  You're the bread and butter here; gotta get hot young guys to keep the old guys coming in."

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back and guffawing through the fear that made his palms sweat.  "Of course I am," he muttered.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing."  He took a deep breath, trying to decide what he wanted to do: Ned's hearing was on Monday, and if he considered himself strong enough for that, then surely he could handle an hour of dancing with his mother.

Right?

"Let's do it," he said decisively.

Monica clapped her hands excitedly, bouncing out the car and grabbing his hand to cross the street.  They had no problem getting in, as she'd predicted, and they'd barely been in there for twenty seconds before Ian could feel eyes on him.  "Ooh, he's kinda cute," she said, pointing one out to him.

He didn't even look.  "I'm not really looking for a hook-up; I sort of have a boyfriend," he said shyly.

"A boyfriend?" she squeaked in shock.  "Why didn't you tell me, we could've brought him too!"

He laughed.  "This isn't really his thing."   _Not really mine either, but whatever._

"What's he like?  Tell me about him."

He blushed at her excitement.  "He's amazing," he said quietly, shuffling his feet and smiling.

She framed his face in her hands.  "He's good to you?  He makes you happy?" she asked seriously.

"The happiest I've been in a while."

Her thumbs ran back and forth on his cheeks.  "Congrats, baby.  You deserve to be happy."

A lump welled up in his throat, and they smiled at each other before making their way out to the dance floor.  The rhythm rolled through them, but they didn't follow it, trying to make each other laugh with ridiculous moves and ignoring the crowd around them.

He knew in the back of his mind that she would leave again eventually, but he let himself enjoy this.  Another memory to put in his box when she abandoned him again.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was stuck doing inventory by himself.  Linda, for whatever reason, had whisked Mandy away on a mysterious "shopping trip," leaving him behind to close the store and do all the counting.

He wasn't bitter at all.  Really.  But he was bored as fuck.

He'd just gotten through re-stacking condiments when his phone vibrated in his pocket.  He didn't check the caller ID, just flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.  "The fuck you want?" he asked gruffly.

"Mickey," Ian breathed.  He sounded relieved.

Mickey tried ignore the fact that hearing Ian's voice immediately lifted his spirits.  "Hey, Freckles.  Still stuck on logarithms?"  He'd been helping Ian with his math homework sporadically, in preparation for a test he had coming up next week.

"No, I--" he huffed out a short, frustrated breath before continuing.  

"Can you come over tonight?"

His voice was shaky, and Mickey could tell he was barely holding himself together.  "What's wrong?  Where the hell are you?"  He could hear music thumping in the background.

"Um, at--at a bar.  Or club.  The White Swallow."

The White Swallow?  What?  "The fuck is that?"

"It's in Boystown.  I know it’s stupid, but I just--I couldn’t--"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down.  The fuck happened?"

Ian hesitated.  "Nothing really," he hedged.  "I'm overreacting, I know I am, but I just--"

"I need you to tell me what happened, Ian."

He was already leaving a note and preparing to lock up the store to catch a bus, but Ian's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"There--There was a guy."

His hands clenched into fists; how did these pieces of shit keep finding him?  They were like that cat, sniffing around cancer patients to tell which one would die first. "What fucking guy?" he asked, voice hard.

"He didn't even really do anything; I shouldn't have called you, I'm sorry--"

"Shut the fuck up and tell me what happened, Ian.  What did that guy do?  If he fucking did something to you I swear to God--"

“No, he didn’t, not really.  I don’t even know why I’m calling.”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to control himself.  “Just tell me what happened, Ian.”

“Can I tell you when you come over?  Or could I come to your house?  Monica could drop me off.”

“Who the fuck is Monica?”  Ian took a breath to answer, but Mickey cut him off.  “Nevermind, I don’t fucking care.  I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Gallagher.”

He snapped his phone shut without waiting for a reply, taking a deep breath before finishing his note to Linda about leaving early.  She’d probably dock his pay, but he didn’t really give a shit at the moment.

He shuffled uneasily from foot to foot while he waited for the bus, thinking over what Ian’d said and trying to convince himself that he was fine.

[To: **Ian** ]

_you better fucking be okay, shithead._

[From: **Ian** ]

_i’m fine, mick. i swear_

The bus pulled up as he composed his reply.

[To: **Ian** ]

_good. if you’re not i’ll kick your fucking ass_

He imagined Ian’s smile at reading it, and it almost made him feel better.

But then he remembered why he was even going over there in the first place and got pissed again.

The bus ride seemed to take longer than usual, and he bounded off as soon as the doors opened, walking briskly to the Gallagher house.

Clayton looked surprised and confused when he opened the door.  “Uh, hey Mickey--”

“Ian here?” he asked, cutting him off and walking past him.

“Oh, by all means, come right in,” Clayton muttered under his breath.

Mickey ignored him.  “Where’s Ian?” he asked again.

Clayton rolled his eyes.  “He’s out with his mother,” he said tersely.  “And he’s late.”

The door opened again as he was speaking, and in walked Ian, bright-eyed and smiling.  “Mickey!” he said happily.  “Come on, I can’t wait to tell you--”

“Now wait just a minute, Ian,” Clayton interrupted.  “I said nine o’clock.  Not 9:30.  Nine.”

Ian waved him off.  “Can we talk about it later?  I really need to tell Mickey--”

“No, we’re not talking about it later.  And why is Mickey even here?  You can’t keep inviting people over to stay here without asking.”

“It’s important, Dad.  I really need to talk to him,” he pleaded.

Mickey took that as his cue to leave and went upstairs, leaving Ian and Clayton to argue it out.  Once in Ian’s room, he changed into some pajamas--another one of Ian’s T-shirts and some shorts Ian had stolen from him over the summer--and looked over the collection of books that were lining Ian’s shelves.

He’d just pulled out Ian’s thick volume of _Lord of the Rings_ when Ian moped in.  “Hey,” he said grumpily, taking off his jacket.

“Hey.”  He held up the book accusingly.  “You don’t speak that fuckin’ elf language, do you?  ‘Cause that’s geeky as shit.”

Ian cracked a smile.  “No, I don’t speak any of the Elvish languages.  Malcolm does, though.”

“Ah, but you know there’s more than one, so you’re just as bad as him.  Not gonna lie, I think that’s a dealbreaker.”

Ian laughed, shaking his head.  “You enjoy Shakespeare, and I’m the geek?”

Mickey glared at him.  “Ey, I never said I liked Shakespeare.  All I said was that _Richard III_ was a badass.”

“You still read the play.  And liked it.  And looked up everything you could on the War of the Roses afterward.”

“That shit stays between us, Gallagher,” he said, dropping _Lord of the Rings_ onto the desk and flopping onto the bed.  “Don’t need any more people knowing I’m fucking well-read.”

“You could at least put it back on the shelf,” Ian chided, crossing the room to replace his book.

Mickey snorted.  “You’re so fucking anal, dude.”

He immediately cringed.  Ian grinned.  “Don’t fucking say anything,” he commanded.  “This is an innuendo-free zone.”

“Oh come on, it’s wide open!”

“Just like your legs,” they said in unison.

Ian smiled again, and Mickey rolled his eyes.  “You’re so fucking lame, man.”

“You said it too!”

“Only because I knew you would,” he returned easily.

Ian snorted.  “Whatever you say.”

He walked to his dresser to change into pajamas, and Mickey turned to face the wall.  “So what’d Clayton have to say?” he asked.

“That I’m grounded.  Which is bullshit, ‘cause I don’t leave the house anyway.  Malcolm was kind enough to point that out for him, so now I can’t see Monica for a month.  Oh, and you and Mandy can’t come over for two weeks.”

The bed dipped where Ian climbed into it, and Mickey moved to make room.  “Good.  I needed a break from your stupid face anyway.”

Ian chuckled and pinched his side.  “Asshole.”

Mickey shrugged.  “If the dildo fits...”

Ian burst out laughing.  “Oh my God, you did not.”

“What are you gonna do about it, Gallagher?”

Ian’s laughter faded into a soft smile, and he leaned in to brush a light kiss against Mickey’s lips before pulling away shyly and blushing.

_Why does he have to be so goddamn fucking adorable?_

Rather than voice that thought, Mickey returned to their earlier conversation on the phone.  “Who the fuck’s Monica, anyway?”

Ian hesitated before answering.  “My mother,” he said quietly.

“Oh.”

“My grandmother died, so Frank went to get her, and she decided she wants to be a part of my life again.  Not sure how long that’ll last, but...”

He trailed off, leaving Mickey to fill in the blanks.  “Why wouldn’t it last?”

“She’s bipolar, and she doesn’t take her meds.  Fucks off places and does stupid shit for a while and then comes back.  Or doesn’t.”  He paused.  “Sometimes she wants us, and sometimes she doesn’t.”

The sadness in his voice made Mickey uncomfortable, and he reached out tentatively to grab Ian’s wrist.  “My mom’s dead,” he said bluntly.  “Pretty sure she didn’t want any of us.”

He could feel Ian’s eyes on him and pointedly turned his face away, hoping Ian would take the hint and not say anything.

“What were you doing at that club?” he asked.

“It was a birthday present.”

“And what happened with that guy you told me about?”

“Oh yeah, I can’t believe I forgot!”  Ian sat up, all traces of melancholy from a few minutes ago replaced by excitement.  “We were dancing, and this guy came up and started grinding on me--”

“I’m gonna stop you right there; what makes you think I wanna hear the rest of this story?”

“No, wait, it gets better.  He groped me a little--”

“Jesus Christ, Ian, what the fuck?  I don’t fucking want to hear about old men groping you unless I have their names and addresses.”

“He wasn’t that old.”

Mickey gave him a look.  “Yeah, ‘cause that makes me feel a whole hell of a lot better,” he deadpanned.  “What is even the point of this?”

“The _point_ ,” he emphasized, “is that I pushed him and told him to stop.  And he did!”

Ian was grinning madly, and Mickey didn’t know how to feel.  He was happy that Ian wasn’t hurt or otherwise traumatized, was glad he’d managed to keep calm and push the guy away.  But the fact that Ian was so excited about someone listening to him when he told them to stop gave him an empty sort of sadness.  Because it’s common sense to stop touching someone when they tell you to, but Ian always expected the opposite.

A lump formed in his throat at the happiness dancing in Ian’s eyes.  “Good,” he said quietly.  “I’m happy for you.”

Ian seemed not to notice his solemnity.  “I’m definitely ready for Monday now,” he remarked offhandedly.

Mickey furrowed his brows.  “Monday?  What happens Monday?”

The color drained from his face.  “Um--nothing.”

Mickey snorted.  “Yeah, okay.  You’ve convinced me.”

Ian bit his lip, deliberating.  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

“That right there is pretty much a guarantee that I will be, but alright.  I promise.”

“Ned’s got a hearing,” he said hesitantly.  “I was gonna go to watch.”

Mickey froze.  “No,” he said shortly.

“Mickey, come on--”

“ _No_.  Your dad’s gonna let you do that?”

“Well he doesn’t actually know about it--”

“You’re not going, Ian.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he said defiantly.

“No, but Clayton sure as fuck can,” he retorted, eyes blazing.

Ian sighed.  “Mickey, please.  I need to do this.”

“Need to do what?  Need to open yourself up to another breakdown?”

“I’m not weak,” he said, voice hard.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you think it!  All of you, that’s all any of you thinks, that I’m some defenseless kid who needs to be kept in a bubble or some shit.  You know what, fuck you, Mickey.  Fuck you.”

Mickey floundered, at a loss.  Ian gathered up his pillow and a blanket before crossing his room to wrench open his door.  “Hey, wait, where you goin’?”

“The couch,” he spat.  “But don’t worry, I can make it down the stairs by myself.”

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Mickey alone on his bed.

“Goddammit,” he groaned, dragging a hand over his face and laying down.

He didn’t think Ian was weak.  He’d _never_ thought that.  Was it so wrong for him to not want Ian to be in the same room as the piece of shit who abused him for six years?  Was it bad that the idea of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and the skin over his knuckles itch?

The fact that Ian never came back gave him his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the first verse of Train's "Drops of Jupiter."
> 
> "Now that she's back in the atmosphere  
> With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey, hey  
> She acts like summer and walks like rain  
> Reminds me that there's a time to change, hey, hey, hey  
> Since the return from her stay on the moon  
> She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey, hey  
> Hey, hey, hey."


	17. Mother's Little Helper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, this wait was ungodly and could be constituted as cruel and unusual punishment, but i was going through some stuff and couldn't really find the motivation to write. thanks for being so patient, though; i hope this was worth it! special thanks to shannon, for being writing buddies with me (also as a sidenote, everyone should go read Tied at the Soul, it's PHENOMENAL).
> 
> oh, and another thing--this entire story is pretty much one big trigger warning, but i guess i'll let you know that there are discussions of sexual abuse ahead.

Lucy rolled over, groaning and internally cursing her body’s natural alarm clock for always getting her up for work on Saturdays.  Her husband was still dead to the world, forehead creased and lips etched into a frown.  She felt her chest warm at the sight, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek, sweeping her thumb back and forth. The corners of his mouth perked up slightly at her touch, and a twinge of sadness pricked at her; he’d been through so much.  First Ian, revealing his abuse, then his mother dying, and now Monica’s sudden reappearance.  He was still reeling from everything Ian had been through, and the extra stressors on top of it all were hell on him.

Guilt welled up in her at that thought.  She hadn’t done much of anything to help him, standing by powerlessly as Clayton spent days acting as sentry outside Ian’s room, unable to sleep.  He hadn’t slept for a solid week, not until Lucy started grinding up sleeping pills and putting them in his desserts.  Those slumbers weren’t restful, though; she always heard him mumbling Ian’s name mixed with profuse apologies.  Sometimes there would be whimpers that tore at her heart, and he’d tearfully revealed to her one night that the nightmares plaguing him were always of Ian, naked and bleeding and crying for help, or screaming as Clayton's former mentor laughed.  All he could do was pound furiously on his son’s bedroom door, but no matter how viciously he fought against it or how frantically he clawed at it, the wood remained unyielding, forcing him to listen to his child’s pain without being able to do anything to help him.

A lump rose in her throat at the memory of him resting his head on her shoulder and weeping, but she swallowed it down.  She bent to press a kiss to his forehead before pulling on her robe and walking through the hall to check on her children before starting breakfast.

Jane’s door was ajar, which wasn’t unexpected; they were trying to wean her off her nightlight, substituting her small set of paper lanterns for the light in the hallway. She could hear her daughter’s soft snores and peeked in, smiling at the sight of the small girl curled around her copy of _The Amber Spyglass_.  The cover was bent from where Jane’s arm was resting, so Lucy crept in to smooth it out, knowing Jane would be upset with herself for ruining it.  As she set it down on her nightstand, she couldn’t help but allow herself the time to watch the even rise and fall of her daughter’s thin chest, running her fingers through the sweaty red curls she’d have to fight to comb out later that morning.

“Sweet girl,” she murmured to herself.  Jane shifted a bit, and it was then that Lucy noticed the crude imitation knuckle tattoos her daughter had drawn onto herself sometime in the night.  The words “RAGE” and “FIRE” were etched into her skin with a pen, and she just rolled her eyes and gave her one last pat on the back before heading to Malcolm’s room.

She could hear her son’s wheezing through his closed door and found him buried under all of his covers and sweating through his t-shirt.  “How many times...” she sighed, shaking her head and pulling back the blankets.  Malcolm had a habit of wrapping himself up during fall and winter--sometimes even spring--before he went to sleep, which always left him overheated and coughing when he woke up.  She must have told him a thousand times in the last seven years to leave his comforter off, but he never did.

“What am I going to do with you?” she mused.  The boy grunted and rolled over in response.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

She closed his door and made her way down the hall to Ian’s room next.

There was a time when he wasn’t included in her before breakfast ritual, when she would pass over his door with a disdainful look on her face and malice in her heart. Now, of course, things were different, and she felt a deep shame and overwhelming guilt for her mistreatment of her stepson; what would’ve happened if she’d opened his door just once?  Would she have seen him crying?  Would Ned have been sleeping there?  Could she have spared him some of this pain if she’d only been less petty?

She was brought out of her musings when she reached his door.

It was open.

Ian’s door was never open; whenever he was in there it was firmly shut, an attempt to seal himself in, and each night she heard him triple check the lock Clayton had installed for him, tugging and twisting the knob until he was satisfied that no one would get in.

Now it was wide open, and his bed didn’t have sheets on it.

Fear fluttered in her chest, and she looked back to her own bedroom.  Should she wake Clayton?  Is this something he should be alarmed with?

She willed herself to calm down and think.  His windows were still closed, so he didn’t make a rope out of his sheets and vault down the side of the house to run away. His drawers still had clothes in them.  His backpack was still here.  He hasn’t run away.

But where is he?

“He’s fine,” she assured herself quietly as she bustled out of the room.  “You’re being ridiculous.  He wouldn’t run away.  Everything’s fine.”

She hastened down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom step, the one that creaks, Mickey whirled out of the armchair he’d been sleeping in, blinking rapidly and brandishing his switchblade.

“Sweet Jesus,” she breathed, clutching a hand to her chest.  “You scared me half to death, Mickey!”

He rubbed his face with his free hand, snuffling a bit.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked.  She stepped further into the living room to find Ian curled up on the couch, wrapped up in his comforter with a small frown on his face.  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said softly, relief saturating her voice.

Mickey put his blade away, and the movement brought forth the stern parent in her.  “You two weren’t up all night watching TV, were you?  Because I really don’t like that.”

“What?  No, we--uh, we had a fight.”

He looked distinctly uncomfortable revealing that fact to her, eyes darting back to Ian’s sleeping form.  “You had a fight,” she repeated.  “And Ian slept down here?”  Ian hated open spaces like this; they’d gone camping one year, when he was eleven, for Memorial Day, and he spent the entire bonfire looking over his shoulder.  They hadn’t even been in the woods, just an open field with a view of the stars.  Clayton had asked him teasingly what he was so jittery about, and he’d cryptically replied “ _You never know what’s coming up behind you_.”

Actually, come to think of it, he’d only been anxious enough to look over his shoulder when Ned wasn’t in their circle, when he couldn’t see the older man sitting next to his father and laughing jovially; as soon as he’d been out of sight, though, the cautious glancing over his shoulder would start again.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, seeing more memories of Ian’s time here, even the most innocuous ones, in a new light.

“You good?” Mickey’s sharp voice jerked her out of her reverie.

She shook her head, trying to clear it.  “Yes.  Yeah, I’m fine.”

They stood together awkwardly for a moment, Mickey avoiding her gaze by watching Ian sleep and Lucy watching him watch Ian.

“What did you fight about?” she asked suddenly.

Her questioning surprised him, and his eyes widened before he took a step back and scratched at his nose.  “Nothing,” he dismissed.

She quirked an eyebrow at him and sat on the coffee table, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest.  “Nothing,” she echoed.  “Really.”

Mickey shuffled his feet, uncertain under her scrutiny.

“Ian wouldn’t have come downstairs to sleep on the couch over nothing, you know.  I’m surprised he even managed to fall asleep, actually; he gets really fidgety when he has to sleep out in the open.  Doesn’t really feel safe.”

She watched him carefully for the effect her words would have on him, and he seemed to relax and tense simultaneously, jaw clenched and shoulders loose.

“He must’ve known you were here, then.  If he could fall asleep.”

His shoulders tightened up again, face pinched.

“And you had to have known he’d be having trouble, right?  So you followed him down to watch over him.”

He resumed his seat in the armchair, dragging a hand over his face.  “Will you stop?” he asked tiredly.

She paused, reaching over to rest a hand lightly on his knee.  The contact startled him, and he narrowed his eyes at her.  “It’s hard,” she mused softly, “knowing that you can’t protect the people you love.”

He freezes.

“It eats away at you, and you just want to hold them and never let them go.  Lock them away forever, so no one can get to them.”

He avoids her gaze, looking instead at Ian over her shoulder.

“And it’s especially hard to protect them when they’re strong, right?  Or worse, when they think they’re stronger than they really are.”

He gulps, looking back at her with a deer-in-headlights look on his face.

They were silent for a moment, watching each other, before she continued.  “Ian’s stubborn, honey,” she murmured.  “And he holds grudges; doesn’t often forgive and seldom forgets, so whatever it is that’s got you two so worked up has to be resolved soon.”

He bites his lip before finally replying.  “He’s being a fucking idiot.”

She cracked a smile.  “He’s a Gallagher, and from what I understand, they have a tendency to do that.”

He eyed her carefully.  “Yeah, well...that fucker’s got some kinda hearing on Monday, and that dumbass thinks he’s going.”

Her thumb stopped stroking the side of his knee, and she wondered in the back of her head when she’d started.  “Oh.”

They lapsed back into silence, listening to Ian’s even breaths and occasional murmurs.  He breathed out Mickey’s name before rolling over and mumbling to himself some more, and Lucy watched a faint blush rise to Mickey’s cheeks.

“You know he’s gonna wind up going, no matter what we say,” she said, resigned.

“No he fucking isn’t!” Mickey replied harshly.  “He’s not fucking going.”

“Mickey--”

“No,” he insisted, voice hard.  “If you think for one second I’m letting him anywhere _near_ that place--”

“ _Mickey_.”  His mouth snapped shut at the warning look in her eyes.  “Thank you.  Now, like it or not, he _will_ find a way to go, whether it’s sneaking out of school or tricking Lip or asking Mandy.  But you have to decide if you’d rather go with him, or if you want him to go alone.”

“He shouldn’t be going _at all_.”

She sighed, pulling away from the contact with his knee.  “We’ll talk with Clayton about it, okay?”

“What’s the point in that?  He’s just gonna side with me.”

“Yes, in all likelihood he will agree with you, and that’s why the four of us are going to discuss it.”

He narrowed his eyes.  “So you’re siding with _him_?” he asked, gesturing at Ian indignantly.

“I...I think it might be good for him to go,” she hedged.

He snorted.  “You gotta be kidding me.”

“It could be therapeutic for him--”

“He’s not going,” he said with a ring of finality.  “If I have to fucking follow him around all day or put a fucking leash on him or whatever, then fine, but he’s not going.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Michael,” she said sharply.

His eyebrows quirked up in surprise at the rebuke.  “That’s not my name,” he mumbled, cowed.

“I don’t care.  Don’t interrupt me again.”

He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, but didn’t say anything more.

“Thank you.  I’ll talk it over with Clayton after breakfast, and then we’ll come to talk to the two of you, alright?”

He nodded, back to avoiding her gaze.

She stood, making her way to the kitchen to start on some eggs and waffles.  “Oh, and Mickey?” she called back to him.

He looked up at her.

“Thank you for caring about him so much.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast was awkward, to say the least; Ian promptly ignored Mickey as soon as he woke up, sitting on the opposite side of the table from him and refusing to speak to him.  Jane was happy to fill in Ian’s usual spot, chattering away at her psuedo-brother-in-law.

“You like my tats?” she asked, presenting her hands to him.

Mickey tore his eyes away from Ian and turned to her.  “Uh, yeah.  They’re...nice.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Say it like you mean it, Milkovich, or I’ll unleash ‘em on you.”

He snorted.  “Yeah right.  I’m pretty sure I could take a six year old.”

“I’m _nine_.  You were at my birthday party.”

“Oh, you mean that day when you and your demented cousins kept pulling my fucking pants down?  I repressed that.”

“Language,” Lucy reprimanded reflexively.

Mickey rolled his eyes, aiming a look at her that clearly said _Eat me._

A sticky silence descended upon them after their exchange, awkward for some and comfortable for others.  Clayton, who couldn’t truly enjoy any meal without conversation, broke it.  “So,” he said cheerfully, “Halloween’s coming up soon.  Any idea what you guys want to be?”

“I’m being Mulan!” Jane declared.

“You were Mulan last year, stupid,” Malcolm scowled.

“So?  There’s no rule saying I can’t be the baddest bitch in Disney history twice in a row.  And besides, I was a _huge_ hit with the neighborhood moms; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“Remember what Debbie said, though,” he cautioned.

She rolled her eyes exasperatedly.  “I know, I know; culture is not a costume, if people can’t tell who you are without you painting your face then you didn’t do a very good job, yadda yadda yadda.  I’m not some douchebag going to a party as Lil Wayne in full blackface.  Or the owner of the Redskins.”

Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Are we going to have to start putting up a swear jar?  Honestly, Jane, would it kill you to not use such vulgar words?”

“Yes,” she answered resolutely.  Mickey snickered into his cereal.

“Don’t encourage her,” Lucy admonished.  “The two of you, I swear.”

“Malcolm, what about you?” Clayton asked pointedly, attempting to diffuse any mounting tension.

“Stephen Hawking,” he announced proudly.  “Ian, you wanna be Einstein?”

In an effort to ~~force~~ encourage the boys to spend more time together after Ian had come to live with them, Clayton had made it so that their Halloween costumes complemented each other each year.  They’d both hated it at first, but Malcolm got more eager to choose a duo every year.  It started out with the classics--Batman and Robin, Superman and Lex Luthor--but later became obscure references for them to laugh at; one year they’d had a pretty explosive fight over whether they would go trick-or-treating as Hootie and a blowfish or Joe and a volcano.

Ian was quiet for a moment before responding.  “Nah, I think I’m gonna do something different this year, bud.”

“Oh.”  Malcolm sat back in his chair, trying not to let his disappointment show on his face.  “That’s fine, I guess.  Who’d you have in mind?”

Ian fixed Clayton with a hard stare before announcing, “Lolita.”

Lucy’s fork clattered onto the table.  Clayton stiffened.  Malcolm’s eyes widened comically behind his glasses, darting from his brother to his father apprehensively.

“Not really sure how I’m gonna pull it off, though,” he continued, eyes locked on his father’s ever-tensing shoulders.  “I could probably find a hot schoolboy uniform somewhere.  Have someone pinch my cheeks to keep ‘em nice and rosy.”

It was as if his words were sucking the air out of the dining room.  Jane could feel the tension rolling off of everyone in waves, but didn’t understand its origin; she watched Malcolm get progressively uncomfortable and Mickey progressively angry, wondering how she should be reacting.

“What’s the masculine form of Dolores, anyway?” Ian mused.  “I guess I could tell people my name was Daniel Haze.  I mean, I already kinda fit without the costume, don’t I?  Might as well capitalize on it.”

Clayton slammed his fork down, nostrils flaring.  “That’s enough,” he spat.

Ian narrowed his eyes at him, schooling his face into one of matching disdain.  “No.”

“Ian, I mean it--”

“No!  I’m sick of this shit!” he exclaimed, jumping from his chair with enough force to knock it down.  “I’m sick of the tip-toeing and beating around the bush and walking on eggshells.  Just fucking say it!”

“Ian--”

“Say it!  Stop acting like it never happened, stop pretending Ned doesn't exist, just fucking _say it_!  I’m the one who went through it, _I’m_ the victim, so stop ignoring it!  Ian was abused.  Ian was molested.  Ian was ra--”

“Enough!” Lucy thundered, standing as well.  Her sudden outburst shocked Ian into silence, and he turned to face her.  “Ian,” she began, taking a deep breath to calm herself down,  “we all know what happened to you, okay?  We know that it was awful, and we all acknowledge your pain--”

“No you don’t!  You refuse to talk about it and act like closing off Ned’s bedroom is gonna change the fact that he slept there!”

“Everyone handles things like this differently, Ian,” Clayton gritted out.  “You can’t be angry at me because I’m not dealing with it the way you want me to.”

“You aren’t dealing with it at all!  You had your one little breakdown, and then you just brushed it under the rug and pretended everything was normal.”

“Things have changed!”

“Yeah, you gave me lock for my bedroom door and make me tell you where I am all the time, but you never talk about why.”

His words hung heavily around Clayton’s ears.  “What do you want me to do, then, huh?  What do you want?”

“I want you to stop minimizing this!” he exploded.  “Stop pretending you’re okay, stop pretending Ned was never your best fucking friend, and stop treating me like a child!”

The silence that followed was deafening.  Ian stalked away from the table and rushed out the front door before anyone could stop him, barefoot and clad only in his pajamas.  Mickey swore under his breath and jumped up, sliding into a pair of sneakers and grabbing a jacket from the hooks on the wall before running after him, leaving the rest of the Gallaghers behind, stunned.

Malcolm took in his parents’ uncertainty after coming down from the adrenalin rush that came with all the yelling and sprang into action.  “Come on, Jane,” he urged quietly.  “Let’s pick out which of Mulan’s outfits you’re gonna wear this year.”

His sister jumped up, eager for the distraction.  “I think maybe I’ll do what she was wearing at the end, when she fought Shan-Yu at the imperial palace; her outfit for the matchmaker scene just doesn’t do it for me anymore.”

With that the two scuttled off, leaving their half-empty plates behind as they scrambled up the stairs.  Clayton and Lucy were left staring at each other, an increasingly awkward silence filling the air.

“Well,” she started, wringing her hands uncomfortably, “I guess I’ll clear the ta--”

“Was he right?” he cut her off, speaking softly and keeping his head down.  “What he said...was he right?”

Sympathy welled in her chest.  “Sweetheart--”

“Don’t sugarcoat anything, okay?  Just tell me.”  He squared his shoulders, turning to face her with a determined expression, as if he were expecting her to condemn him.

She thought back on the weeks leading up to Ian’s blow-up (had it only been weeks?  A month?  She could barely remember what her life had been before) and tried to see Ian’s point: Clayton had presented him with a lock and key for his bedroom door, helping him install it and exchanging awkward smiles afterward; Clayton called, frantic, whenever Ian was late coming home, whether it be two minutes or twenty; the children were under strict orders to never set foot in Ned’s study or his bedroom, but Clayton, more often than not, could be found standing in the doorway of either room, silently staring and coming back even more stony-faced than he’d started out.

“You may have been a bit...withdrawn,” she said hesitantly.  “You avoid any and all conversation about it, you’ve all but erased Ned from your memory--don’t think I didn’t see you boxing up the books he gave you and putting them in the basement.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, slumping back down into his chair.  “I thought...I thought that’s what he needed.  I thought he wanted to put it all behind him.”

“He can’t put it behind him if it’s still weighing you down,” she chastised gently.  “And it won’t be behind him for a long time, especially with the hearing coming up.”

“Hearing?” he echoed, brows furrowed in confusion.  “What hearing?”

Her eyes widened.  “Shit,” she muttered.  “I wanted to tell you later,” she explained apologetically.

“What hearing.”  His voice was hard and flat, no trace of inflection.

She sighed.  “Ned’s got some kind of hearing on Monday, I’m not sure what it’s about.  Mickey says that Ian wants to go.”

“No way,” he protested immediately.  “No _fucking_ way!”

“Calm down,” she urged, eyes darting to the ceiling and listening for signs that her other children overheard their father’s outburst.  When there wasn’t any suspicious silence or loud shushing, she continued.  “He wants to go, Clayton.  You know how stubborn he is; if he wants to go, then he’ll get there, one way or another.”

“He’s not going,” he said with a ring of finality.  “He’ll never be in the same room with that bastard ever again.”

His eyes flashed dangerously, and she steeled herself for confrontation.  “Clayton,” she placated, “don’t you think we should give Ian this chance?”

“This chance to what, get hurt again?  I don’t think so.”

“He wouldn’t be hurt, honey.”

“Not physically, at least,” he scoffed.  “There’s all kinds of emotional and psychological pain to consider here, Lucy.”

“I realize that, but if he thinks he’s strong enough to handle it, then why not let him?  Clayton, this could be good for him; he’ll be confronting his abuser, standing up for himself--he’ll be the one with all the power now, don’t you see?  This could help him recover.”

“Yeah, and it could also traumatize him further!” he exclaimed.  “This could set him back, make him regress--fuck, he could have another breakdown!  I refuse to let him be hurt anymore, do you understand?   _Never again_.”

“Dad.”

Ian’s voice rang clearly through the air, causing them both to whirl around.  Ian stood in the kitchen entryway, wrapped in the jacket Mickey had grabbed for him and wearing mismatched socks.  The front door closed quietly, and Mickey padded across the living room to stand with him.  “I’m going,” he announced.

Clayton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.  “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” he insisted.

“No--”

“It happened to _me_ , okay?  It was _my_ bed and _my_ body, so it’s _my_ decision.  I’m going.”

The determined expression on his face matched his father’s from earlier, while Clayton’s had morphed into a cross between desperation and anger.  “Ian,” he said slowly, “I understand that you were hurt and that you want to take some control back, but I’m your father, and it’s my job to protect you.”  His voice broke on ‘protect,’ and it made Lucy flinch.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured, walking around the table to stand in front of his father.  “It’s not like I’ll have to talk to him or anything.  And you’re acting like I haven’t been living with him for the last six years; it’s weirder not seeing his face every day than it will be to see him in the courtroom.”

“That’s not the point,” Clayton said softly, placing his hands on Ian’s shoulders.  “I can’t...I can’t risk anything happening to you, okay?  I’ve failed you too many times already.”

“There’ll be other people there too, Dad.  Like the bailiff, for one.  Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Clayton took in his son’s earnest eyes and felt the edges of his resolve beginning to waver.  He stepped back and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “We'll talk about it later, alright?  And that’s the best you’re gonna get.”

A small smile broke across Ian’s face, and he stepped forward to hug his father.  “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispered.

Tears pricked in the back of Clayton’s eyes, and he held onto him tighter.

 

* * *

 

“Yo, slow down!”  Mickey called out, jogging up the block to catch up with Ian.

“Leave me alone,” he said shortly.

Mickey ignored him, easily matching Ian’s pace.  “Here,” he said, holding out the jacket he’d snatched off a hook.  It must have been Clayton’s; it was long and broad-shouldered, smelling of aftershave and antiseptic.

“I don’t want it.”

“You’re shivering.”

Ian ignored him, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Real mature, man.  I can see where Jane gets it from.”

Ian side-eyed him.  “If I take it, will you leave?”

“...If that’s what you want,” he said, biting his lip.

He could see deliberation in the creases on Ian’s forehead before he grabbed the coat and draped himself in it.  Ian turned to Mickey expectantly.  “Well?  You said you would leave.”

Mickey toed off his shoes and kicked them at Ian’s legs.  “Yeah, well, I lied,” he said simply.  “Put those on.”

Ian glared at him.  “No.”

“At least take my socks, then.”

“Go away.”

Mickey stopped walking, trying to take the time to reign in his temper as Ian continued up the block.  “You know what, fuck this,” he muttered darkly, bending down for his sneakers.  He lobbed one as a warning shot, hitting Ian’s ankle and tripping him up; the other bounced off the top of his head.

“Ow!” he yelped, rubbing the sore spot.  “You asshole!”

“Don’t be a pussy, it didn’t hurt that much!” Mickey called back.  Ian flipped him off and turned around again, stalking away.  “Shit,” he murmured.  He jogged up to gather his shoes again before launching them at Ian in quick succession, one hitting him between his shoulderblades and the other clipping his ear.

“Argh!  Motherfucker!”

“What’s the matter, Gallagher?” he taunted.  “Can’t take a little pain?  You turn into some weak little bitch?”

His words had the desired affect; Ian stiffened, face morphing into something feral.  With an enraged cry, he doubled back, running at Mickey and tackling him.  “Fuck you!” he screamed.  “I’m not weak!”

Mickey fought his way on top of Ian, pinning his shoulders and shaking him.  “I know that, you dumbass!  Now will you stop and fucking listen to me?!”

Ian struggled and squirmed, but Mickey’s hands were curled around his shoulders in a vice-like grip, their legs tangled together like tight coils.  “Listen, Ian--listen to me!” he roared.  The other boy seemed startled by his volume and stopped, glowering.  “I’m not doing any of this because I think you’re weak, you imbecile.”

“You keep saying that, but then you do this shit!” Ian retorted, trying to gesture with his hands.

“What shit?”

“This!  Bringing me a jacket and trying to give me your shoes and telling me to take my pills and making sure I eat and treating me like some goddammed invalid!”

Mickey sat back on Ian’s thighs, releasing his shoulders.  “Are you fucking serious?” he demanded.  “Jesus Christ, you’re so stupid.”

Ian’s answering glare was murderous.  “Then explain it to me, shithead,” he gritted out.

“I’m not doing any of that shit because I think you’re an invalid, I’m doing it because you’re fucking important to me!  Forgive me for giving a shit about you, you twat.”

“Fuck off, I’m not a twat,” he scowled.

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Yes you are.  Now can I get up, or are you gonna attack me again?”

Ian clenched his jaw and relaxed his body, surrendering.  Mickey ambled off of him and didn’t offer a hand to help him up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.  “I care about you, Ian,” he said quietly.  “I care about what happens to you.”

Silence descended upon them, and Ian felt shame beginning to prickle through him.  “I know you do,” he said softly.  “I just--I’m sick of feeling like I’m some useless kid, you know?  Everyone thinks I can’t do anything myself anymore.  And it’s not like they’re wrong, right?” he asked dejectedly, shuffling his feet.  “I can’t defend myself, I was too stupid to figure out he was lying about my dad, I’m too messed up to do stuff with you--”

“Hey, come on.  Stop that,” Mickey admonished softly, rubbing a gentle hand along Ian’s arm.  “Stop worrying about that shit.  You’re getting stronger all the time, man, all that working out you do.  And you were scared before, alright?  You were scared and you thought you were helping your family.”

Ian sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his father’s coat.  “I just want it all to stop,” he whispered.  “I want them to stop feeling sorry for me and I want to stop _hurting_ all the time--”

Mickey cut him off with a hug, feeling tremors run through Ian’s body and tears leak onto his shoulder.  “Seeing him won’t make you hurt less, Ian,” he said quietly.

“You don’t know that,” he replied, pulling away and wiping his eyes.  “And it’s not about that; I want to show them I can be strong.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Ian bit his lip, turning to face Mickey head on.  “Then maybe I want to prove it to myself.”

Mickey took in the tense set of his shoulders and tried to see someone strong and sure, someone who walked with his back straight and his head held high, but all he could focus on was Ian’s wet eyes and smattering of freckles and how boyish he looks--and that shouldn’t surprise him, he’s still a fucking _child_ , goddammit--

“Okay,” he said, surprising himself.  “If that’s what you need to do, then we’ll do it.”

Ian’s eyes lit up.  “Really?  You mean it, you’ll go with me?”

Mickey heaved a sigh at his hopeful tone.  “Yeah.  I better not fucking regret this, either.”

“You won’t, I swear.”  A wide grin split his face, and he launched himself at Mickey again, laughing.

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on, Jesus,” he complained, pushing Ian away lightly.  “There are conditions, man.  Your dad has to be okay with it, too.”

“Oh come on, Mick--”

“You’re not going anywhere on Monday if your dad says no, alright?  I’m not tryna get between you two.”

“Fine,” he scoffed.  They turned around and ambled back to Ian’s house, walking in silence for a few moments before Ian sheepishly asked, “Does the offer for those socks still stand?”

Mickey snorted, shoving them into Ian’s hands and sliding his sneakers back on.  “Dumbass,” he said affectionately.

Ian’s answering grin was blinding, and he heard the other boy’s lilting voice in his head, teasing him.   _You know you love it._

When they got back to the house, they caught the tail end of Clayton and Lucy’s conversation before Ian interrupted it.  Mickey caught Lucy’s eye as the father and son hugged, reading a question there.

_Everything okay?_

He bit his lip and nodded infinitesimally.   _For now._

 

* * *

 

Things were slightly strained for the rest of the day; no one quite knew what to say to alleviate the thick tension permeating through the air, so the house was mostly silent. The only sounds all through dinner were the light scratching of silverware against plates, and when Lucy asked Malcolm and Jane to clear the table and do the dishes, Ian knew she was gearing up to have a discussion--his siblings took  _forever_ to do chores, especially when they did them together, and the two of them doing dishes would inevitably end up turning into a fight with soap suds.  Clayton gestured for him and Mickey to come to the living room after Lucy had finished preparing her evening cup of Earl Grey tea.  They sat on the couch together, facing Lucy in the plush armchair with Clayton perched on the ottoman.

Clayton heaved a great sigh and dragged a hand over his face.  "Tell me about this...hearing," he said wearily.

Ian took a deep breath, grabbing Mickey's hand and squeezing.  "Detective Hanson said it was his arraignment."

"Arraignment," he echoed quietly, rubbing his hands together.  "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"A judge reads the charges and then asks for a plea," Lucy explained softly, watching her husband for a reaction.  He nodded to himself and gulped, Adam's apple bobbing.  "Do you know what time it'll be, Ian?" she asked.

"12:25.  But she wanted to know if we could come at 12 instead, to go over some things."

Clayton's head snapped up from where he'd been staring at his knees.  "What things?"

Ian shrugged.  "I'm not sure.  I told her I would be there, though."

Clayton snorted mirthlessly.  "Of course you did," he muttered.  "So, what, we sit in the courtroom and wait for him to say 'guilty'?"

"Pretty much."

He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose.  "I...I'll think about it.  No guarantees, and I reserve the right to change my mind at any time, got it?"

Ian's eyes lit up.  "Got it."  Then he hesitated, giving Mickey a sidelong glance.  "Can, um, Mickey come?"

Lucy and Clayton responded simultaneously, with a soft "Of course he can, sweetheart," and a stern "I haven't said you're going yet," respectively.  They looked at each other before Lucy continued.  "You can bring whoever you want; we all support you."

Her answer seemed to disconcert him for a moment before he replied.  "Fiona.  I want to bring Fiona."

"What about Mandy?" she asked.  "Is she coming?"

He bit his lip, going over a conversation he'd had with her the day before.

***

_"Hey Mandy," he greeted happily.  "I hope you know you're saving me from math homework--"_

_"She knows," she interrupted quietly.  "Linda.  She knows."_

_A myriad of emotions fluttered through his chest, the primary being relief.  "Are you sure?  How?"_

_"I--I don't know, but she gave me a set of keys for the store and her apartment and said I could come to her when things got bad."_

_He paused, trying to sort through his own thoughts as well as to decipher hers.  "Well that's good, isn't it?"_

_"Did you tell her?" she demanded.  He could feel her eyes flashing through the phone.  "I already told you I didn't want people to know--"  
_

_"Whoa, calm down, I didn't tell her anything," he swore._

_He pictured her pacing and running her fingers through her hair.  "Ian, I don't--I can't--goddammit!"  He heard her kick something viciously before flinching at the pain. Her breath hitched, and he knew she was close to tears._

_"Mandy," he said softly, "do you want me to come over?"_

_She sniffed.  "No," she said dismissively.  "No, I'm fine.  I'm good; I can handle it."_

_It sounded more like she was trying to convince herself rather than him, wiping at her eyes and trying to control her voice.  "Are you sure?"_

_"Yes.  Yeah, I just--ugh, I don't know."_

_They were quiet for a few moments before Ian broke the silence.  "Does she know about...you know, the--baby?"  His voice dropped like it was a dirty word and he was in church._

_Mandy hesitated.  "I--I'm not sure.  Should I talk to her about it?"_

_"You could find out how she knew about the other stuff, at least.  Or maybe she could give you some money; how much do you have now?"_

_"$407.64.  At this rate I'll have to use a coat hanger."_

_"Jesus."  He cringed at the mental image, stomach turning.  "Is that even safe?"_

_"I don't know, I don't care, I just--I just need it out of me."  Her voice had an edge of panic to it._

_He gulped.  "Maybe I could send you some more.  Or you could try doing overtime."_

_"There isn't any reason for overtime here, it's so goddamn **boring**.  And you already did so much, Ian."_

_"I can do more," he insisted._

_She took a breath to protest before the sharp sound of glass breaking interrupted her.  "Shit, I gotta go."_

_"Mandy, wait--"_

_She'd already hung up._

_The brief conversation had him reeling, a never-ending circle of unanswered questions swirling through his head._

**_How did Linda know?_ **

***

Now Monica's words from in the car floated through his head, words that made him sick with their implications.

_We've gotta stick together, don't we?_

"Mandy's--um.  Mandy's got plans.  An English test.  She can't miss it," he invented hastily.  His stomach churned, hearing a phantom echo of his mother whispering into his ear.  _We've gotta stick together._

Mickey narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  "You good, man?"

Ian gave a quick jerk of his head, trying to rub his sweaty palms on his jeans.  "Yeah," he answered, voice cracking.  "I'm good."

Mickey didn't look entirely satisfied, but Lucy gave him a small smile.  "So you want the four of us?"

He seemed surprised that she'd included herself.   _We've gotta stick together._  "...Yeah," he hedged.  "The four of you."

A loud crash and an impassioned shout of "I'm telling!" brought Clayton to his feet with a groan, and he walked briskly to the kitchen to settle whatever dispute Malcolm and Jane had gotten into. 

The remaining three sat in semi-companionable silence before Ian broke it.  “Why are you doing this?” he asked suddenly, eyeing his stepmother nervously.

“Doing what?” she asked, sipping her tea.

“Being nice to me.  You hate me.”

She rushed to deny it. “I have _never_ \--”

“Oh cut the shit, Lucy,” he cut her off sharply.  “You do so.”

She ran her finger along the rim of her teacup, avoiding his gaze.  “Alright, fine, I’ll admit that I harbored some...less than warm feelings for you.”

He looked unimpressed with her admission.

She sighed.  "Let's go upstairs for a bit.  Mickey, do you mind?"

"Uh--" he shot a quick glance to Ian for some kind of guidance or confirmation, but his eyes were firmly on his stepmother.  "Yeah, I'll--I'll stay down here."

He squeezed Ian's hand before allowing him to follow Lucy upstairs and into her bedroom.  She closed the door and sat on her bed, inviting Ian to do the same.  “Okay," she huffed, tapping her fingers against the edge of her teacup, "you want the truth?  I _despised_ you,” she said simply.  “I hated that my husband was willing to risk our marriage to get custody of you.  I hated that every time I looked at you I saw Clayton and-- _that woman_.  I hated that he spent so much time with you that he started to neglect Malcolm and Jane.  I hated that he missed you during the summer more than he ever missed Malcolm when he went to science camp.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he scoffed.  “You think I didn’t feel you glaring at me every time he hugged me or kissed me on the forehead or patted me on the back?”

She paused, letting her guilt roll over her while she contemplated what to say.  “Things are different now, Ian,” she replied quietly, eyes downcast.

“No!” he exclaimed, standing.  “No, you don’t get to do that.  What, you think I’m damaged now or some shit?  You think I can’t take it?  I don’t need any of your fucking pity.”

She reached to grab his arm.  “I don’t pity you, sweetheart--”

“Stop it!” He yanked himself away from her, stepping back until he was almost at the door.  “Stop with the pet names and the pats on the head and the fucking smiles, alright?  You weren’t supposed to change! Everyone else, they treat me like I’m some stupid little kid who can’t even fucking tie their shoes.  They all look at me like I’m pathetic and act like if I hear Ned’s name I’ll start crying.  You were the only one who treated me the same as before.”

His voice cracked with emotion, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and comfort him.  “Ian--”

“No!  I don’t care if you feel guilty about before, stop treating me like--like--”

“Like you’re my son,” she supplied for him.

He seemed to deflate, staring at her with a blank look on his face.

She sighed.  “Would you sit down for a minute?  Please?”

His jaw clenched, but he did as she asked, resuming his position on the edge of the bed.

“Thank you.”  She pulled idly at a loose thread in her sweater, fishing for the words to make him understand.  “I...I had a sister.”

His shoulders tensed, and she could tell he was interested against his will.  “Had?” he questioned.

She smiled bitterly.  “Yeah.  Had.”

He waited for her to continue, allowing her time to gather her thoughts.  “Our mother remarried when I was eight, and she was thirteen.  His name was Max.”  She sighed, dragging a hand over her face.  “Christ, I haven’t even told your father this,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond, keeping his full attention fixed on her.

“Mom and Max bought a new house after they got back from their honeymoon.  It was bigger than our old one, so we didn’t have to share a room anymore.  I was afraid of the dark, so I slept with my door open, and sometimes...sometimes I would see him go into her room.”

Memories came rushing back; the confusion, the fear, the discomfort.  “I didn’t know what it meant, so I didn’t say anything, but my sister was...different.  Quieter. More jumpy.  And she started losing weight.  Not much, but her sweaters always looked baggy on her.  Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to her getting under my covers.  Always said that she’d had a bad dream.”

A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down.  “I was ten when she tried to tell our mother.  Max had just left for work, and we were in the kitchen.  She didn’t beat around the bush or segue into it, just blurted it out.  I remember thinking that there was something wrong with her eyes...” she trailed off before pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a deep breath.  “Mom laughed at her.  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,' she said.  'Max would never do that.  Why would you make up something so awful?’”

She looked up at her stepson this time, eyes shining with unshed tears.  “I watched my sister die a little inside every day that year without knowing what it meant, and when I was eleven--” she broke off, trying to compose herself.  “There was one day when I was eleven that she wasn’t there to walk home with me from the bus stop. And I haven’t seen her since.”

A stray tear ran down her face, and she hastily wiped it away.  “It’s not that I feel guilty about what happened to you, Ian--I mean I _do_ , but that’s not--oh nevermind.” She took a deep breath before continuing, locking her gaze onto his.  "It’s that I refuse to drive you away the way my mother did.”

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity before Ian broke it.  “What was her name?” he asked, voice thick.

She gave him a wan smile.  “Matilda.  Matilda Jane Buchanan.”

A lump rose to his throat.  “You...you named Jane after her?” he asked quietly.

“Malcolm too, a little," she replied hoarsely.  "It felt like the least I could do, after I let her slip through my fingers.  It probably sounds stupid, but I thought--I thought that it would be like having her around again.”

He reached a tentative arm out to comfort her.  “No, Lucy, that’s not stupid.  It’s...sweet.”

She snorted.  “It’s pathetic, is what it is.”

He smiled, feeling a fragile bond starting to form between them.  “What was she like?”

“Like Malcolm and Jane put together, funnily enough.  Mostly Jane, though.”  The smile on her face was more genuine now, and Ian couldn’t help but respond to it. “God, she _hated_ her name.  Always asked people to call her Lind--”

The door opened suddenly, and Ian jerked his hand away from her reflexively. A panting, slightly damp Clayton crossed the threshold.  “Those kids, I swear--” he cut himself off, their solemn expressions bringing him up short.  “Everything okay?”

“We’re fine,” she sniffed, sliding her hand across the comforter and grabbing Ian’s wrist where it rested.  “We’re fine.”

 

* * *

 

Lucy listened to the house breathe around her, her family tucked safely into their beds; Jane's book was on her nightstand, Malcolm was only wrapped in a sheet, and Ian and Mickey were wrapped around each other.  Clayton was squirming beside her, trying to find a comfortable position with the tension in his shoulders before finally giving up and settling directly on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  "I called out of work Monday," she admitted quietly.  "Taking a personal day."

He sighed.  "I figured you would.  I guess I will, too," he said, sliding his hand under their covers to reach for hers.

They laid in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.  "I don't think I can do it, Luce," Clayton whispered, voice quivering.

She turned onto her side to face him.  "Don't be silly," she said softly, bringing a hand up to stroke his cheek.  "Of course you can."

He sniffed, avoiding her eyes.  "He's so much stronger than me."

She applied more pressure to the hand on his face, forcing him to look at her.  "That's nothing to be ashamed of.  All it means is that you can support each other, right?"

The sadness in his eyes killed her.  "You really think he'll be okay?"

He sounded so young, so much like his sons, that she almost couldn't bear it.  "I  _know_ he will.  He's got you, and Mickey, and Fiona, and--"

"You," he interrupted.  "He's got you, too."

A now-familiar lump rose in her throat, and she struggled to speak around it, fighting the tears burning in her eyes.  "Yeah.  He's got me, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the last lines of "Mother's Little Helper" by The Rolling Stones.
> 
> "The pusuit of happiness just seems a bore,  
> And if you take more of those, you will get an overdose.  
> No more running for the shelter of a mother's little helper;  
> They just helped you on your way, through your busy dying day."
> 
> ***EDIT 8/24/15***  
>  it's been almost nine months since this was last updated, and i'd like to offer a sincere apology to everyone who has bookmarked, subscribed to, and otherwise enjoyed, this fic. i've been trying to work through depression for almost a year now, and it has severely affected my writing--so much so that i must (officially) put this work on hiatus; i don't know when the next chapter will be published, but i do know that it won't be any time soon. i don't want to string anyone along (sorry to the person i told i would update this in july), so just know that i am not working on the draft of the next chapter, and i will not be able to work on it at any point in the near future. i hope that once i do feel up to updating it, you will still be interested in reading and will still enjoy what i give you. if you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please direct them to my blog on [tumblr](http://wolvesandgrls.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> I'd really appreciate some comments about what you guys think!


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